THE  WORKS  OF  JAMES 

WHITCOMB  RILEY  j*  j* 

VOL.  I 


NEGHBORLY    POEMS 
*  *  AND  DIALECT 
SKETCHES    *  *  *  f  * 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS  >  NEW  YORK  »  1915 


Copyright,  1883,  1891,  and  1897,  by 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  EILEY 


%*  The  publication  of  this  Homestead  Edition  of  the  works 
of  James  Whitcomb  Riley  is  made  possible  by  the 
courtesy  of  The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,  of  Indian 
apolis,  the  original  publishers  of  Mr.  Riley's  books. 


TS 


O! 
I 


IN  arranging  for  the  author's  complete  writings  in 
this,  The  Homestead  Edition,  it  has  been  found  necessary 
to  make  some  deviations  from  the  order  of  the  contents 
of  his  volumes  as  they  first  consecutively  appeared  and, 
in  the  same  editions,  are  continued  by  their  original  pub 
lishers,  severally,— The  Bowen-Merrill  Co.,  Indianapolis; 
The  Century  Co.,  New  York;  and  Longmans,  Green  & 
Co.,  London.  The  titles  of  the  two  volumes,  "An  Old 
Sweetheart  of  Mine"  (The  Bowen-Merrill  Co.,  Indian 
apolis)  and  "Old-Fashioned  Roses"  (Longmans.  Green 
&  Co.,  London),  do  not  here  reappear,  but  their  contents 
are  duly  brought  over  and  preserved  in  full  in  this  edi 
tion.  To  the  generous  courtesy  of  both  American  and 
English  publishers  the  author  is  additionally  indebted, 
and  so  permitted  to  reshape,  in  rounded  form,  his  verse 
and  prose  product  entire— the  base  of  all  changes  made 


350478 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

being  simply  in  the  interest  of  symmetry  and  the  avoid 
ance  of  repetitions  peculiar  to  the  novice's  first  brood  of 
books. 

No  further  word  seems  due  or  pertinent,  at  this  new 
beginning  and  first  volume,  unless  it  be  to  emphasize  the 
strictly  conscientious  intent  of  the  real  writer  to  be  lost 
wholly  in  the  personality  of  this  book's  supposed  old 
Hoosier  author,  Benj.  F.  Johnson.  Therefore  the  gener 
ous  reader  is  fervently  invoked  to  regard  the  verse-pro 
duct  herein  not  only  as  the  work  of  the  old  man's  mind, 
but  as  the  patient  labor  of  his  unskilled  hand  and  pen  as 
well— and  the  whole  of  it  thus  reverently  held  unedited, 
save  in  simplest  essential  marks  of  punctuation,— these 
conditions  only  changing  in  his  prose  sketch,  "An  Old 
Settler's  Story,"  which  primitive  chronicle  is,  for  appa 
rent  reasons,  retold  as  by  a  pleased  listener  to  the  ori 
ginally  impromptu  narration. 

J.  W.  R. 


VI 


TO   MY   BROTHER 
HUMBOLDT   RILEY 


PREFACE 

As  far  back  into  boyhood  as  the  writer's  memory  may 
intelligently  go,  the  "  country  poet "  is  most  pleasantly 
recalled.  He  was,  and  is,  as  common  as  the  "country 
fiddler,"  and  as  full  of  good  old-fashioned  music.  Not  a 
master  of  melody,  indeed,  but  a  poet,  certainly— 

"  Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies." 

And  it  is  simply  the  purpose  of  this  series  of  dialectic 
studies  to  reflect  the  real  worth  of  this  homely  child  of 
nature,  and  to  echo  faithfully,  if  possible,  the  faltering 
music  of  his  song. 

In  adding  to  this  series,  as  the  writer  has,  for  many 
years,  been  urged  to  do,  and  answering  as  steadfast  a 

iz 


PREFACE 

demand  of  Benj.  F.  Johnson's  first  and  oldest  friends,  it 
has  been  decided  that  this  further  work  of  his  be  intro 
duced  to  the  reader  of  the  volume  as  was  the  old  man's 
first  work  to  the  reader  of  the  newspaper  of  nearly  ten 
years  ago. 

Directly,  then,  referring  to  the  Indianapolis  "Daily 
Journal,"— under  whose  management  the  writer  had  for 
some  time  been  employed,— from  issue  of  date  June  17, 
1882,  under  editorial  caption  of  "  A  Boone  County  Pas 
toral,"  this  article  is  herewith  quoted: 

Benj.  F.  Johnson,  of  Boone  county,  who  considers  the  Jour 
nal  a  "  very  valubul "  newspaper,  writes  to  inclose  us  an  origi 
nal  poem,  desiring  that  we  kindly  accept  it  for  publication,  as 
"many  neghbors  and  friends  is  astin'  him  to  have  the  same 
struck  off." 

Mr.  Johnson  thoughtfully  informs  us  that  he  is  "  no  edjucated 
man,"  but  that  he  has,  "from  childhood  up  tel  old  enugh  to 
vote,  allus  wrote  more  er  less  poetry,  as  many  of  an  albun  in 
the  neghborhood  can  testify."  Again,  he  says  that  he  writes 
"  from  the  hart  out ";  and  there  is  a  touch  of  genuine  pathos  in 
the  frank  avowal,  "  Thare  is  times  when  I  write  the  tears  rolls 
down  my  cheeks." 

In  all  sincerity,  Mr.  Johnson,  we  are  glad  to  publish  the  poem 
you  send,  and  just  as  you  have  written  it.  That  is  its  greatest 
charm.  Its  very  defects  compose  its  excellence.  You  need  no 

X 


PREFACE 

better  education  than  the  one  from  which  emanates  "  The  Old 
Swimmin'-Hole."  It  is  real  poetry,  and  all  the  more  tender  and 
lovable  for  the  unquestionable  evidence  it  bears  of  having  been 
written  "  from  the  hart  out."  The  only  thing  we  find  to— but 
hold!  Let  us  first  lay  the  poem  before  the  reader: 

Here  followed  the  poem,  "The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole," 
entire— the  editorial  comment  ending  as  follows: 

The  only  thing  now,  Mr.  Johnson— as  we  were  about  to  ob 
serve—the  only  thing  we  find  to  criticise,  at  all  relative  to  the 
poem,  is  your  closing  statement  to  the  effect  that  "It  was 
wrote  to  go  to  the  tune  of  'The  Captin  with  his  Whiskers!'" 
You  should  not  have  told  us  that,  0  Rare  Ben.  Johnson! 

A  week  later,  in  the  "  Journal "  of  date  June  24th,  fol 
lowed  this  additional  mention  of  "  Benj.  F.  Johnson,  of 
Boone": 

It  is  a  pleasure  for  us  to  note  that  the  publication  of  the 
poem  of  "  The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole,"  to  which  the  Journal,  with 
just  pride,  referred  last  week,  has  proved  almost  as  great  a 
pleasure  to  its  author  as  to  the  hosts  of  delighted  readers  who 
have  written  in  its  praise,  or  called  to  personally  indorse  our 
high  opinion  of  its  poetic  value.  We  have  just  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Johnson,  the  author,  inclosing  us  another  lyrical  per 
formance,  which  in  many  features  even  surpasses  the  original 
ity  and  spirit  of  the  former  effort.  Certainly  the  least  that  can 
be  said  of  it  is  that  it  stands  a  thorough  proof  of  our  first  as- 

.  xi 


PREFACE 

sertion,  that  the  author,  though  by  no  means  a  man  of  learning 
and  profound  literary  attainments,  is  none  the  less  a  true  poet 
and  an  artist.  The  letter,  accompanying  this  later  amaranth 
of  blooming  wildwood  verse,  we  publish  in  its  entirety,  assured 
that  Mr.  Johnson's  many  admirers  will  be  charmed,  as  we  have 
been,  at  the  delicious  glimpse  he  gives  us  of  his  inspiration, 
modes  of  study,  home-life,  and  surroundings. 

"To  the  Editer  of  the  Indanoplus  Jurnal: 

"Respected  Sir— The  paper  is  here,  mar  kin'  the  old  swim- 
min'-hole,  my  poetry  which  you  seem  to  like  so  well.  I  joy  to 
see  it  in  print,  and  I  thank  you,  hart  and  voice,  fer  speakin'  of 
its  merrits  in  the  way  in  which  you  do.  I  am  glad  you  thought 
it  was  real  poetry,  as  you  said  in  your  artikle.  But  I  make 
bold  to  ast  you  what  was  your  idy  in  sayin'  I  had  ortent  of  told 
you  it  went  to  the  tune  I  spoke  of  in  my  last.  I  felt  highly 
flatered  tel  I  got  that  fur.  Was  it  because  you  don't  know  the 
tune  refered  to  in  the  letter?  Er  wasent  some  words  spelt 
right  er  not?  Still  ef  you  hadent  of  said  somepin'  aginst  it  Ide 
of  thought  you  was  makin'  fun.  As  I  said  before  I  well  know 
my  own  unedjucation,  but  I  don't  think  that  is  any  reason  the 
f eelin's  of  the  soul  is  stunted  in  theyr  growth  however.  '  Juge 
not  less  ye  be  juged,'  says  The  Good  Book,  and  so  say  I,  ef  I 
thought  you  was  makin'  fun  of  the  lines  that  I  wrote  and  which 
you  done  me  the  onner  to  have  printed  off  in  sich  fine  style  that 
I  have  read  it  over  and  over  again  in  the  paper  you  sent,  and  I 
would  like  to  have  about  three  more  ef  you  can  spare  the  same 

xii 


PREFACE 

and  state  by  mail  what  they  will  come  at.  All  nature  was  in 
tune  day  before  yisterday  when  your  paper  come  to  hand.  It 
had  ben  a-raining  hard  f  er  some  days,  but  that  morning  opened 
up  as  clear  as  a  whissel.  No  clouds  was  in  the  sky,  and  the  air 
was  bammy  with  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  wet  smell  of  the 
earth  and  the  locus  blossoms  and  the  flowrs  and  pennyroil  and 
boneset.  I  got  up,  the  first  one  about  the  place,  and  went  forth 
to  the  plesant  fields.  I  fed  the  stock  with  lavish  hand  and 
wortered  them  in  merry  glee,  they  was  no  bird  in  all  the  land 
no  happier  than  me.  I  have  jest  wrote  a  verse  of  poetry  in 
this  letter;  see  ef  you  can  find  it.  I  also  send  you  a  whole 
poem  which  was  wrote  off  the  very  day  your  paper  come.  I 
started  it  in  the  morning  I  have  so  feebly  tride  to  pictur'  to  you 
and  wound  her  up  by  suppertime,  besides  doin'  a  fare  day's  work 
around  the  place. 

"  Ef  you  print  this  one  I  think  you  will  like  it  better  than 
the  other.  This  ain't  a  sad  poem  like  the  other  was,  but  you 
will  find  it  full  of  careful  thought.  I  pride  myself  on  that. 
I  also  send  you  30  cents  in  stamps  fer  you  to  take  your  pay 
out  of  fer  the  other  papers  I  said,  and  also  fer  three  more  with 
this  in  it  ef  you  have  it  printed  and  oblige.  Ef  you  don't  print 
this  poem,  keep  the  stamps  and  send  me  three  more  papers  with 
the  other  one  in— makin'  the  sum  totul  of  six  (6)  papers  alto 
gether  in  full.  Ever  your  true  friend, 

BENJ.  F.  JOHNSON. 

"N.  B.— The  tune  of  this  one  is  'The  Bold  Privateer.'" 
xiii 


PREFACE 

Here  followed  the  poem,  "  Thoughts  Fer  The  Discur- 
aged  Farmer";— and  here,  too,  fittingly  ends  any  com 
ment  but  that  which  would  appear  trivial  and  gratuitous. 

Simply,  in  briefest  conclusion,  the  hale,  sound,  artless, 
lovable  character  of  Benj.  F.  Johnson  remains,  in  the 
writer's  mind,  as  from  the  first,  far  less  a  fiction  than  a 
living,  breathing,  vigorous  reality.— So  strong,  indeed, 
has  his  personality  been  made  manifest,  that  many  times, 
in  visionary  argument  with  the  sturdy  old  myth  over  cer 
tain  changes  from  the  original  forms  of  his  productions, 
he  has  so  incontinently  beaten  down  all  suggestions  as  to 
a  less  incongruous  association  of  thoughts  and  words, 
together  with  protests  against  his  many  violations  of 
poetic  method,  harmony,  and  grace,  that  nothing  was 
left  the  writer  but  to  submit  to  what  has  always  seemed 
—and  in  truth  still  seems— a  superior  wisdom  of  dicta 
tion.  J.  W.  R. 

Indianapolis,  July,  1891. 


xiv 


SALUTATION 

TO  BENJ.  F.  JOHNSON 

Jl 
THE  OLD  MAN 

Lo!  steadfast  and  serene, 
In  patient  pause  between 
The  seen  and  the  unseen, 

What  gentle  zephyrs  fan 
Your  silken  silver  hair,— 
And  what  diviner  air 
Breathes  round  you  like  a  prayer. 
Old  Man? 

Can  you,  in  nearer  view 
Of  Glory,  pierce  the  blue 
Of  happy  Heaven  through; 

And,  listening  mutely,  can 
Your  senses,  dull  to  us, 
Hear  Angel-voices  thus, 
In  chorus  glorious- 
Old  Man? 
XV 


SALUTATION 

In  your  reposeful  gaze 
The  dusk  of  Autumn  dayt 
Is  blent  with  April  haze, 
As  when  of  old  began 
The  bursting  of  the  bud 
Of  rosy  babyhood — 
When  all  the  world  was  good, 
Old  Man, 

And  yet  I  find  a  sly 
Little  twinkle  in  your  eye; 
And  your  whisperingly  shy 

Little  laugh  is  simply  an 
Internal  shout  of  glee 
That  betrays  the  fallacy 
You'd  perpetrate  on  me, 
Old  Man! 

So  just  put  up  the  frown 

That  your  brows  are  pulling  down! 

Why,  the  fleetest  boy  in  town, 

As  he  bared  his  feet  and  ran, 
Could  read  with  half  a  glance — 
And  of  keen  rebuke,  perchance — 
Your  secret  countenance, 
Old  Man! 

Now,  honestly,  confess: 
Is  an  old  man  any  less 
Than  the  little  child  we  bless 

And  caress  when  we  can? 
Isn't  age  but  just  a  place 
Where  you  mask  the  childish  face 
To  preserve  its  inner  grace, 
Old  Man? 

xvi 


SALUTATION 

Hasn't  age  a  truant  day, 
Just  as  that  you  went  astray 
In  the  wayward,  restless  way, 

When,  brown  with  dust  and  tan, 
Your  roguish  face  essayed, 
In  solemn  masquerade, 
To  hide  the  smile  it  made, 
Old  Man? 

Now,  fair,  and  square,  and  true, 
Don't  your  old  soul  tremble  through, 
As  in  youth  it  used  to  do 

When  it  brimmed  and  overran 
With  the  strange,  enchanted  sights, 
And  the  splendors  and  delights 
Of  the  old  "Arabian  Nights," 
Old  Man? 

When,  haply,  you  have  fared 
Where  glad  Aladdin  shared 
His  lamp  with  you,  and  dared 
The  Afrite  and  his  clan; 
And,  with  him,  clambered  through 
The  trees  where  jewels  grew — 
And  filled  your  pockets,  too, 
Old  Man? 

Or,  with  Sinbad,  at  sea— 

And  in  veracity 

Who  has  sinned  as  bad  as  he, 

Or  would,  or  will,  or  can.'— 
Have  you  listened  to  his  lies, 
With  open  mouth  and  eyes, 
And  learned  his  art  likewise, 
Old  Man? 

xvii 


SALUTATION 

And  you  need  not  deny 

That  your  eyes  were  wet  as  dry, 

Beading  novels  on  the  sly! 

And  review  them,  if  you  can, 
And  the  same  warm  tears  wittfatt— 
Only  faster,  that  is  all- 
Over  Little  Nell  and  Paul, 
Old  Man! 

0,  you  were  a  lucky  lad— 
Just  as  good  as  you  were  bad! 
And  the  host  of  friends  you  had — 

Charley,  Tom,  and  Dick,  and  Dan; 
And  the  old  School-Teacher,  too, 
Though  he  often  censured  you; 
And  the  girls  in  pink  and  blue, 
Old  Man. 

And— as  often  you  have  leant, 
In  boyish  sentiment, 
To  kiss  the  letter  sent 

By  Nelly,  Belle,  or  Nan— 
Wherein  the  rose's  hue 
Was  red,  the  violet  blue— 
And  sugar  sweet— and  you, 
Old  Man,— 

So,  to-day,  as  lives  the  bloom, 
And  the  sweetness,  and  perfume 
Of  the  blossoms,  I  assume, 

On  the  same  mysterious  plan 
The  Master's  love  assures, 
That  the  self-same  boy  endures 
In  that  hale  old  heart  of  yours, 
Old  Man. 
xviii 


CONTENTS 


PAGK 
THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLB,  AND  'LEVEN  MORE  POEMS 

The  Delights  of  our  Childhood  is  soon  Passed  Away         .        .  2 

THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE 3 

THOUGHTS  FER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER  ....  5 

A  SUMMER'S  DAY 8 

A  HYMB  OF  FAITH 11 

WORTERMELON  TIME 14 

MY  PHILOSOFY 18 

WHEN  THE  FROST  is  ON  THE  PUNKIN        ....  21 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT  .       .       .24 

THE  MULBERRY  TREE 27 

To  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN  ....  29 

MY  FIDDLE 34 

THE  CLOVER 36 

xix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NEGHBORLY  POEMS 

ON  FRIENDSHIP,  GRIEF  AND  FARM-LIFE 

Us  Farmers  in  the  Country,  at  the  Seasons  go  and  Come  .        .  40 

ERASMUS  WILSON 41 

MY  RUTHERS 46 

ON  A  DEAD  BABE 49 

A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG 50 

"COON-DOG  WESS" 53 

PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 59 

A  TALE  OF  THE  AIRLY  DAYS 63 

"MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE" 65 

ON  A  SPLENDUD  MATCH 68 

OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES         .       .       .       .69 

THE  Hoss 75 

EZRA  HOUSE 79 

A  PEN-PICTUR' 83 

WET-WEATHER  TALK 87 

THOUGHTS  ON  A  PORE  JOKE 90 

A  MORTUL  PRAYER 91 

THE  FIRST  BLUEBKD 93 

EVAGENE  BAKER 94 

ON  ANY  ORDENARY  MAN 97 

TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 98 

LINES  WRIT  FER  ISAAC  BRADWELL 101 

DECORATION  DAY  ON  THE  PLACE       .....  102 
xx 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TREE-TOAD 105 

THE  ROSSVILLE  LECTUR'  COURSE 107 

WHEN  THE  GREEN  GITS  BACK  IN  THE  TREES    .       .       .110 

How  IT  HAPPENED 112 

A  DOS'T  o'  BLUES 115 

THE  OLD  HOME  BY  THE  MILL 117 

THE  WAY  IT  Wuz 120 

PAP'S  OLD  SAYIN' 124 

ROMANCIN' „          127 

AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 131 

DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 185 

Originally  contributed  to  THE  FORUM— reprinted  here  by  per 
mission 


XXI 


THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE" 

AND 

'LEVEN  MORE  POEMS 

BY 

BENJ.  F.  JOHNSON,  OF  BOONE 


The  ddightt  of  our  childhood  is  toon  pasted  away, 

And  our  gloryus  youth  it  departs,— 
And  yit,  dead  and  burried,  they1*  blossoms  of  May 

Ore  theyr  medderland  graves  in  our  harts. 
So,  friends  of  my  bare-footed  days  on  the  farm, 

Whether  truant  in  city  er  not, 
God  prosper  you  same  as  He's  prosperin'  me, 

Whilse  your  past  haint  despised  erf  ergot. 

Oh  !  they's  nothin',  at  morn,  thafs  as  grand  unto  me 

As  the  glorys  of  Natchur  so  fare,— 
With  the  Spring  in  the  breeze,  and  the  bloom  in  the  trees, 

And  the  hum  of  the  lees  etfrywhare! 
The  green  in  the  woods,  and  the  birds  in  the  boughs, 

And  the  dew  spangled  over  the  fields ; 
And  the  bah  of  the  sheep  and  the  bawl  of  the  cows 

And  the  call  from  the  house  to  your  meals! 

Then  ho  !  fer  your  brekfast !  and  ho  !  fer  the  toil 

That  waiteth  alike  man  and  beast ! 
Oh  !  its  soon  with  my  team  FU,  be  turnin'  up  soil, 

Whilse  the  sun  shoulders  up  in  the  East 
Ore  the  tops  of  the  ellums  and  beeches  and  oaks, 

To  smile  his  godspeed  on  the  plow, 
And  the  furry  and  seed,  and  the  Man  in  his  need, 

And  the  joy  of  the  swet  of  his  brow  ! 


THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE 

OH  !  the  old  swimmin'-hole !  whare  the  crick  so  still  and  deep 
Looked  like  a  baby-river  that  was  laying  half  asleep, 
And  the  gurgle  of  the  worter  round  the  drift  jest  below 
Sounded  like  the  laugh  of  something  we  onc't  ust  to  know 
Before  we  could  remember  anything  but  the  eyes 
Of  the  angels  lookin'  out  as  we  left  Paradise; 
But  the  merry  days  of  youth  is  beyond  our  controle, 
And  it's  hard  to  part  ferever  with  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 

Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole  !    In  the  happy  days  of  yore, 
When  I  ust  to  lean  above  it  on  the  old  sickamore, 
Oh!  it  showed  me  a  face  in  its  warm  sunny  tide 
That  gazed  back  at  me  so  gay  and  glorified, 
It  made  me  love  myself,  as  I  leaped  to  caress 
My  shadder  smilin'  up  at  me  with  sich  tenderness. 
But  them  days  is  past  and  gone,  and  old  Time's  tuck  his  toll 
From  the  old  man  come  back  to  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 

3 


THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE 

Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!    In  the  long,  lazy  days 
When  the  hum-drum  of  school  made  so  many  run-a-ways, 
How  plesant  was  the  jurney  down  the  old  dusty  lane, 
Whare  the  tracks  of  our  bare  feet  was  all  printed  so  plane 
You  could  tell  by  the  dent  of  the  heel  and  the  sole 
They  was  lots  o'  fun  on  hands  at  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 
But  the  lost  joys  is  past!    Let  your  tears  in  sorrow  roll 
Like  the  rain  that  ust  to  dapple  up  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 

Thare  the  bullrushes  growed,  and  the  cattails  so  tall, 
And  the  sunshine  and  shadder  fell  over  it  all; 
And  it  mottled  the  worter  with  amber  and  gold 
Tel  the  glad  lillies  rocked  in  the  ripples  that  rolled; 
And  the  snake-feeder's  four  gauzy  wings  fluttered  by 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  daisy  dropped  out  of  the  sky, 
Or  a  wownded  apple-blossom  in  the  breeze's  controle 
As  it  cut  acrost  some  orchurd  to'rdstheold  swimmin'-hole. 

Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!    When  I  last  saw  the  place, 
The  scenes  was  all  changed,  like  the  change  in  my  face; 
The  bridge  of  the  railroad  now  crosses  the  spot 
Whare  the  old  divin'-log  lays  sunk  and  fergot. 
And  I  stray  down  the  banks  whare  the  trees  ust  to  be- 
But  never  again  will  theyr  shade  shelter  me! 
And  I  wish  in  my  sorrow  I  could  strip  to  the  soul, 
And  dive  off  in  my  grave  like  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 

4 


THOUGHTS  PER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER 

THE  summer  winds  is  sniffin'  round  the  bloomin'  locus' 

trees; 

And  the  clover  in  the  pastur  is  a  big  day  fer  the  bees, 
And  they  been  a-swiggin'  honey,  above  board  and  on  the 

sly, 

Tel  they  stutter  in  theyr  buzzin'  and  stagger  as  they  fly. 
The  flicker  on  the  fence-rail  'pears  to  jest  spit  on  his 

wings 

And  roll  up  his  feathers,  by  the  sassy  way  he  sings; 
And  the  hoss-fly  is  a-whettin'-up  his  forelegs  fer  biz, 
And  the  off -mare  is  a-switchin'  all  of  her  tale  they  is. 

You  can  hear  the  blackbirds  jawin'  as  they  foller  up  the 

plow- 
On,  theyr  bound  to  git  theyr  brekfast,  and  theyr  not 

a-carin'  how; 
So  they  quarrel  in  the  furries,  and  they  quarrel  on  the 

wing— 

5 


THOUGHTS  PER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER 

But  theyr  peaceabler  in  pot-pies  than  any  other  thing: 
And  it's  when  I  git  my  shotgun  drawed  up  in  stiddy  rest, 
She's  as  full  of  tribbelation  as  a  yeller-jacket's  nest; 
And  a  few  shots  before  dinner,  when  the  sun's  a-shinin' 

right, 
Seems  to  kindo'-sorto'  sharpen  up  a  feller's  appetite! 

They's  been  a  heap  o'  rain,  but  the  sun's  out  to-day, 
And  the  clouds  of  the  wet  spell  is  all  cleared  away, 
And  the  woods  is  all  the  greener,  and  the  grass  is  greener 

still; 

It  may  rain  again  to-morry,  but  I  don't  think  it  will. 
Some  says  the  crops  is  ruined,  and  the  corn's  drownded 

out, 

And  propha-sy  the  wheat  will  be  a  failure,  without  doubt; 
But  the  kind  Providence  that  has  never  failed  us  yet, 
Will  be  on  hands  onc't  more  at  the  'leventh  hour,  I  bet! 

Does  the  medder-lark  complane,  as  he  swims  high  and  dry 
Through  the  waves  of  the  wind  and  the  blue  of  the  sky? 
Does  the  quail  set  up  and  whissel  in  a  disappinted  way, 
Er  hang  his  head  in  silunce,  and  sorrow  all  the  day? 
Is  the  chipmuck's  health  a-failin'?— Does  he  walk,  er  does 

he  run? 
Don't  the  buzzards  ooze  around  up  thare  jest  like  they've 

allus  done? 

6 


THOUGHTS  PER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER 

Is  they  anything  the  matter  with  the  rooster's  lungs  er 

voice? 
Ort  a  mortul  be  complanin'  when  dumb  animals  rejoice? 

Then  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contentud  with  our  lot; 
The  June  is  here  this  morning,  and  the  sun  is  shining  hot. 
Oh!  let  us  fill  our  harts  up  with  the  glory  of  the  day, 
And  banish  ev'ry  doubt  and  care  and  sorrow  fur  away! 
Whatever  be  our  station,  with  Providence  fer  guide, 
Sich  fine  circumstances  ort  to  make  us  satisfied; 
Fer  the  world  is  full  of  roses,  and  the  roses  full  of  dew, 
And  the  dew  is  full  of  heavenly  love  that  drips  fer  me 
and  you. 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY 

THE  Summer's  put  the  idy  in 

My  head  that  Fm  a  boy  again; 

And  all  around's  so  bright  and  gay 
I  want  to  put  my  team  away, 
And  jest  git  out  whare  I  can  lay 
And  soak  my  hide  full  of  the  day! 

But  work  is  work,  and  must  be  done— 

Yit,  as  I  work,  I  have  my  fun,  ' 

Jest  fancyin'  these  furries  here 

Is  childhood's  paths  onc't  more  so  dear:— 

And  so  I  walk  through  medder-lands, 
And  country  lanes,  and  swampy  trails 

Whare  long  bullrushes  bresh  my  hands; 
And,  tilted  on  the  ridered  rails 

Of  deadnin'  fences,  "Old  Bob  White* 
Whissels  his  name  in  high  delight, 

And  whirrs  away.    I  wunder  still, 

Whichever  way  a  boy's  feet  will— 
8 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY 

Whare  trees  has  fell,  with  tangled  tops 

Whare  dead  leaves  shakes,  I  stop  fer  breth, 
Heerin'  the  acorn  as  it  drops— 

H'istin'  my  chin  up  still  as  deth, 
And  watchin'  clos't,  with  upturned  eyes, 
The  tree  whare  Mr.  Squirrel  tries 
To  hide  hisse'f  above  the  limb, 
But  lets  his  own  tale  tell  on  him. 
I  wunder  on  in  deeper  glooms — 

Git  hungry,  hearin'  female  cries 
From  old  farm-houses,  whare  perfumes 

Of  harvest  dinners  seems  to  rise 
And  ta'nt  a  feller,  hart  and  brane, 
With  memories  he  can't  explane. 

I  wunder  through  the  underbresh, 

Whare  pig-tracks,  pintin'  to'rds  the  crick, 

Is  picked  and  printed  in  the  fresh 

Black  bottom-lands,  like  wimmern  pick 

Theyr  pie-crusts  with  a  fork,  some  way, 

When  bakin'  fer  camp-meetin'  day. 

I  wunder  on  and  on  and  on, 
Tel  my  gray  hair  and  beard  is  gone, 
And  ev'ry  wrinkle  on  my  brow 
Is  rubbed  clean  out  and  shaddered  now 
9 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY 

With  curls  as  brown  and  fare  and  fine 
As  tenderls  of  the  wild  grape-vine 
That  ust  to  climb  the  highest  tree 
To  keep  the  ripest  ones  fer  me. 
I  wunder  still,  and  here  I  am 
Wadin'  the  ford  below  the  dam— 
The  worter  chucklin'  round  my  knee 

At  hornet-welt  and  bramble-scratch, 
And  me  a-slippin'  'crost  to  see 

Ef  Tyner's  plums  is  ripe,  and  size 
The  old  man's  wortermelon-patch, 

With  juicy  mouth  and  drouthy  eyes. 
Then,  after  sich  a  day  of  mirth 
And  happiness  as  worlds  is  wurth— 

So  tired  that  heaven  seems  nigh  about,- 
The  sweetest  tiredness  on  earth 

Is  to  git  home  and  flatten  out— 
So  tired  you  can't  lay  flat  enugh, 
And  sorto'  wish  that  you  could  spred 
Out  like  molasses  on  the  bed, 
And  jest  drip  off  the  aidges  in 
The  dreams  that  never  comes  again. 


10 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH 

0,  THOU  that  doth  all  things  devise 

And  fashon  fer  the  best, 
He'p  us  who  sees  with  mortul  eyes 

To  overlook  the  rest. 

They's  times,  of  course,  we  grope  in  doubt, 

And  in  afflictions  sore; 
So  knock  the  louder,  Lord,  without, 

And  we'll  unlock  the  door. 

Make  us  to  feel,  when  times  looks  bad 

And  tears  in  pitty  melts, 
Thou  wast  the  only  he'p  we  had 

When  they  was  nothin'  else. 

Death  comes  alike  to  ev'ry  man 
That  ever  was  borned  on  earth; 
11 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH 

Then  let  us  do  the  best  we  can 
To  live  f er  all  life's  wurth. 

Ef  storms  and  tempusts  dred  to  see 
Makes  black  the  heavens  ore, 

They  done  the  same  in  Galilee 
Two  thousand  years  before. 

But  after  all,  the  golden  sun 
Poured  out  its  floods  on  them 

That  watched  and  waited  fer  the  One 
Then  borned  in  Bethlyham. 

Also,  the  star  of  holy  writ 
Made  noonday  of  the  night, 

Whilse  other  stars  that  looked  at  it 
Was  envious  with  delight. 

The  sages  then  in  wurship  bowed, 

From  ev*ry  clime  so  fare; 
0,  sinner,  think  of  that  glad  crowd 

That  congergated  thare! 

They  was  content  to  fall  in  ranks 
With  One  that  knowed  the  way 

From  good  old  Jurden's  stormy  banks 
Clean  up  to  Jedgmunt  Day. 
12 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH 

No  matter,  then,  how  all  is  mixed 

In  our  near-sighted  eyes, 
All  things  is  fer  the  best,  and  fixed 

Out  straight  in  Paradise. 

Then  take  things  as  God  sends  'em  here, 

And,  ef  we  live  er  die, 
Be  more  and  more  contenteder, 

Without  a-astin'  why. 

0,  Thou  that  doth  all  things  devise 

And  fashon  fer  the  best, 
He'p  us  who  sees  with  mortul  eyes 

To  overlook  the  rest. 


J3 


WORTERMELON  TIME 

OLD  wortermelon  time  is  a-comin'  round  again, 
And  they  ain't  no  man  a-livin'  any  tickleder'n  me, 

Fer  the  way  I  hanker  after  wortermelons  is  a  sin — 
Which  is  the  why  and  wharef  ore,  as  you  can  plainly  see. 

Oh!  it's  in  the  sandy  soil  wortermelons  does  the  best, 
And  it's  thare  they'll  lay  and  waller  in  the  sunshine 

and  the  dew 
Tel  they  wear  all  the  green  streaks  clean  off  of  theyr 

breast; 

And  you  bet  I  ain't  a-findin'  any  fault  with  them;  air 
you? 

They  ain't  no  better  thing  in  the  vegetable  line; 
And  they  don't  need  much  'tendin',  as  eVry  farmer 

knows; 
And  when  theyr  ripe  and  ready  fer  to  pluck  from  the 

vine, 

I  want  to  say  to  you  theyr  the  best  fruit  that  grows. 
14 


WORTERMELON  TIME 

It's  some  likes  the  yeller-core,  and  some  likes  the  red, 
And  it's  some  says  "The  Little  Calif orny"  is  the  best; 

But  the  sweetest  slice  of  all  I  ever  wedged  in  my  head, 
Is  the  old  "  Edingburg  Mounting-sprout,"  of  the  west. 

You  don't  want  no  punkins  nigh  your  wortermelon 

vines— 
'Cause,  some-way-another,  they'll  spile  your  melons, 

shore; — 

I've  seed 'em  taste  like  punkins,  from  the  core  to  the  rines, 
Which  may  be  a  fact  you  have  heerd  of  before. 

But  your  melons  that's  raised  right  and  'tended  to  with 

care, 
You  can  walk  around  amongst  'em  with  a  parent's 

pride  and  joy, 

And  thump  'em  on  the  heads  with  as  fatherly  a  air 
As  ef  each  one  of  them  was  your  little  girl  er  boy. 

I  joy  in  my  hart  jest  to  hear  that  rippin'  sound 
When  you  split  one  down  the  back  and  jolt  the  halves 

in  two, 

And  the  friends  you  love  the  best  is  gethered  all  around— 
And  you  says  unto  your  sweethart,  "  Oh,  here's  the 
core  feryou!" 


15 


WORTERMELON  TIME 

And  I  like  to  slice  'em  up  in  big  pieces  fer  'em  all, 
Espeshally  the  childern,  and  watch  theyr  high  delight 

As  one  by  one  the  rines  with  theyr  pink  notches  falls, 
And  they  holler  fer  some  more,  with  unquenched 
appetite. 

Boys  takes  to  it  natchurl,  and  I  like  to  see  'em  eat— 
A  slice  of  wortermelon's  like  a  frenchharp  in  iheyr 

hands, 
And  when  they  "  saw  "  it  through  theyr  mouth  sich 

music  can't  be  beat— 

'Cause  it's  music  both  the  sperit  and  the  stummick 
understands. 

Oh,  they's  more  in  wortermelons  than  the  purty-colored 

meat, 
And  the  overflowin'  sweetness  of  the  worter  squshed 

betwixt 

The  up'ard  and  the  down'ard  motions  of  a  feller's  teeth, 
And  it's  the  taste  of  ripe  old  age  and  juicy  childhood 
mixed. 

Fer  I  never  taste  a  melon  but  my  thoughts  flies  away 
To  the  summertime  of  youth;  and  again  I  see  the  dawn, 

And  the  fad  in'  afternoon  of  the  long  summer  day, 
And  the  dusk  and  dew  a-fallin',  and  the  night  a-comin' 

on. 

16 


WORTERMELON  TIME 

And  thare's  the  corn  around  us,  and  the  lispin'  leaves  and 

trees, 
And  the  stars  a-peekin'  down  on  us  as  still  as  silver 

mice, 

And  us  boys  in  the  wortermelons  on  our  hands  and  knees, 
And  the  new-moon  hangin'  ore  us  like  a  yeller-cored 
slice. 

Oh!  it's  wortermelon  time  is  a-comin'  round  again, 
And  they  ain't  no  man  a-livin'  any  tickleder'n  me, 

Fer  the  way  I  hanker  after  wortermelons  is  a  sin— 
Which  is  the  why  and  wharefore,  as  you  can  plainly  see. 


17 


MY  PHILOSOFY 

I  AIN'T,  ner  don't  p'tend  to  be, 
Much  posted  on  philosofy; 
But  thare  is  times,  when  all  alone, 
I  work  out  idees  of  my  own. 
And  of  these  same  thare  is  a  few 
Fd  like  to  jest  refer  to  you— 
Pervidin'  that  you  don't  object 
To  listen  clos't  and  rickollect. 

I  allus  argy  that  a  man 
Who  does  about  the  best  he  can 
Is  plenty  good  enugh  to  suit 
This  lower  mundane  institute- 
No  matter  ef  his  daily  walk 
Is  subject  fer  his  neghbor's  talk, 
And  critic-minds  of  eVry  whim 
Jest  all  git  up  and  go  fer  him! 
18 


MY  PHILOSOFY 

I  knowed  a  feller  onc't  that  had 
The  yeller-janders  mighty  bad,— 
And  each  and  ev'ry  friend  he'd  meet 
Would  stop  and  give  him  some  receet 
Fer  cuorin'  of  'em.     But  he'd  say 
He  kindo'  thought  they'd  go  away 
Without  no  medicin',  and  boast 
That  he'd  git  well  without  one  doste. 

He  kep'  a-yellerin'  on— and  they 
Perdictin'  that  he'd  die  some  day 
Before  he  knowed  it!    Tuck  his  bed, 
The  feller  did,  and  lost  his  head, 
And  wundered  in  his  mind  a  spell- 
Then  rallied,  and,  at  last,  got  well; 
But  ev'ry  friend  that  said  he'd  die 
Went  back  on  him  eternally! 

Its  natchurl  enugh,  I  guess, 
When  some  gits  more  and  some  gits  less, 
Fer  them-uns  on  the  slimmest  side 
To  claim  it  ain't  a  fare  divide; 
And  I've  knowed  some  to  lay  and  wait, 
And  git  up  soon,  and  set  up  late, 
To  ketch  some  feller  they  could  hate 
Fer  goin'  at  a  faster  gait. 
19 


MY  PHILOSOFY 

The  signs  is  bad  when  folks  commence 

A-findin'  fault  with  Providence, 

And  balkin'  'cause  the  earth  don't  shake 

At  eVry  prancin'  step  they  take. 

No  man  is  grate  tel  he  can  see 

How  less  than  little  he  would  be 

Ef  stripped  to  self,  and  stark  and  bare 

He  hung  his  sign  out  anywhare. 

My  doctern  is  to  lay  aside 

Contensions,  and  be  satisfied: 

Jest  do  your  best,  and  praise  er  blame 

That  follers  that,  counts  jest  the  same. 

I've  allus  noticed  grate  success 

Is  mixed  with  troubles,  more  er  less, 

And  it's  the  man  who  does  the  best 

That  gits  more  kicks  than  all  the  rest. 


20 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON   THE   PUNKIN 

WHEN  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 
shock, 

And  you  hear  the  kyouck  and  gobble  of  the  struttin' 
turkey-cock, 

And  the  clackin'  of  the  guineys,  and  the  cluckin'  of  the 
hens, 

And  the  rooster's  hallylooyer  as  he  tiptoes  on  the  fence; 

0,  its  then's  the  times  a  feller  is  a-feelin'  at  his  best, 

With  the  risin'  sun  to  greet  him  from  a  night  of  peace 
ful  rest, 

As  he  leaves  the  house,  bare-headed,  and  goes  out  to 
feed  the  stock, 

When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 
shock. 

They's  something  kindo'  harty-like  about  the  atmusfere 
When  the  heat  of  summer's  over  and  the  coolin'  fall  is 
here— 

21 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUNK1N 

Of  course  we  miss  the  flowers,  and  the  blossums  on  the 

trees, 
And  the  mumble  of  the  hummin'-birds  and  buzzin'  of  the 

bees; 
But  the  air's  so  appetizin';  and  the  landscape  through 

the  haze 

Of  a  crisp  and  sunny  morning  of  the  airly  autumn  days 
Is  a  pictur'  that  no  painter  has  the  colorin'  to  mock- 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock. 

The  husky,  rusty  russel  of  the  tossels  of  the  corn, 
And  the  raspin'  of  the  tangled  leaves,  as  golden  as  the 

morn; 

The  stubble  in  the  furries— kindo'  lonesome-like,  but  still 
A-preachin'  sermuns  to  us  of  the  barns  they  growed  to 

fill; 

The  strawstack  in  the  medder,  and  the  reaper  in  the  shed; 
The  hosses  in  theyr  stalls  below— the  clover  overhead!— 
0,  it  sets  my  hart  a-clickin'  like  the  tickin'  of  a  clock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock! 

Then  your  apples  all  is  getherd,  and  the  ones  a  feller 

keeps 

Is  poured  around  the  celler-floor  in  red  and  yeller  heaps; 

22 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUNKIN 

And  your  cider-makin'  's  over,  and  your  wimmern-f oiks  is 

through 
With  their  mince  and  apple-butter,  and  theyr  souse  and 

saussage,  too!  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  how  to  tell  it— but  ef  sich  a  thing  could  be 
As  the  Angels  wantin'  boardin',  and  they'd  call  around 

on  me— 

I'd  want  to'commodate  'em— all  the  whole-indurin'  flock— 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT 

"  LITTLE  Haly !  Little  Haly ! "  cheeps  the  robin  in  the  tree; 
"Little  Haly!"  sighs  the  clover,  "Little  Haly!"  moans 

the  bee; 

"  Little  Haly !  Little  Haly ! "  calls  the  kill-deer  at  twilight ; 
And  the  katydids  and  crickets  hollers  "Haly!"  all  the 

night. 

The  sunflowers  and  the  hollyhawks  droops  over  the 
garden  fence; 

The  old  path  down  the  gardenwalks  still  holds  her  foot 
prints'  dents; 

And  the  well-sweep's  swingin'  bucket  seems  to  wait  fer 
her  to  come 

And  start  it  on  its  wortery  errant  down  the  old  bee-gum. 

The  bee-hives  all  is  quiet;  and  the  little  Jersey  steer, 
When  any  one  comes  nigh  it,  acts  so  lonesome-like  and 
queer; 

24 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT 

And  the  little  Banty  chickens  kindo'  cutters  faint  and 

low, 
Like  the  hand  that  now  was  feedin'  'em  was  one  they 

didn't  know. 

They's  sorrow  in  the  wavin'  leaves  of  all  the  apple-trees; 
And  sorrow  in  the  harvest-sheaves,  and  sorrow  in  the 

breeze; 

And  sorrow  in  the  twitter  of  the  swallers  'round  the  shed; 
And  all  the  song  her  red-bird  sings  is  "  Little  Haly's 

dead!" 

The  medder  'pears  to  miss  her,  and  the  pathway  through 

the  grass, 
Whare  the  dewdrops  ust  to  kiss  her  little  bare  feet  as  she 

passed; 
And  the  old  pin  in  the  gate-post  seems  to  kindo'-sorto' 

doubt 
That  Haly's  little  sunburnt  hands'll  ever  pull  it  out. 

Did  her  father  er  her  mother  ever  love  her  more'n  me, 
Er  her  sisters  er  her  brother  prize  her  love  more  tendurly  ? 
I  question— and  what  answer?— only  tears,  and  tears 

alone, 

And  eVry  neghbor's  eyes  is  full  o'  tear-drops  as  my  own. 

25 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT 

"  Little  Haly !  Little  Haly ! "  cheeps  the  robin  in  the  tree; 
"Little  Haly!"  sighs  the  clover,  "Little  Haly!"  moans 

the  bee; 

"  Little  Haly!  Little  Haly! "  calls  the  kill-deer  at  twilight, 
And  the  katydids  and  crickets  hollers  "Haly!"  all  the 

night. 


26 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE 

0,  ITS  many's  the  scenes  which  is  dear  to  my  mind 
As  I  think  of  my  childhood  so  long  left  behind; 
The  home  of  my  birth,  with  its  old  puncheon-floor, 
And  the  bright  morning-glorys  that  growed  round  the 

door; 

The  warped  clab-board  roof  whare  the  rain  it  run  off 
Into  streams  of  sweet  dreams  as  I  laid  in  the  loft, 
Countin'  all  of  the  joys  that  was  dearest  to  me, 
And  a-thinkin'  the  most  of  the  mulberry  tree. 

And  to-day  as  I  dream,  with  both  eyes  wide-awake, 
I  can  see  the  old  tree,  and  its  limbs  as  they  shake, 
And  the  long  purple  berries  that  rained  on  the  ground 
Whare  the  pastur'  was  bald  whare  we  trommpt  it  around. 
And  again,  peekin'  up  through  the  thick  leafy  shade, 
I  can  see  the  glad  smiles  of  the  friends  when  I  strayed 
With  my  little  bare  feet  from  my  own  mother's  knee 
To  foller  them  off  to  the  mulberry  tree. 

27 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE 

Leanin'  up  in  the  forks,  I  can  see  the  old  rail, 
And  the  boy  climbin'  up  it,  claw,  tooth,  and  toe-nail, 
And  in  fancy  can  hear,  as  he  spits  on  his  hands, 
The  ring  of  his  laugh  and  the  rip  of  his  pants. 
But  that  rail  led  to  glory,  as  certin  and  shore 
As  I'll  never  climb  thare  by  that  rout'  any  more — 
What  was  all  the  green  lauruls  of  Fame  unto  me, 
With  my  brows  in  the  boughs  of  the  mulberry  tree! 

Then  its  who  can  fergit  the  old  mulberry  tree 

That  he  knowed  in  the  days  when  his  thoughts  was  as  free 

As  the  flutterin'  wings  of  the  birds  that  flew  out 

Of  the  tall  wavin'  tops  as  the  boys  come  about? 

0,  a  crowd  of  my  memories,  laughin'  and  gay, 

Is  a-climbin'  the  fence  of  that  pastur'  to-day, 

And  a-pantin'  with  joy,  as  us  boys  ust  to  be, 

They  go  racin'  acrost  fer  the  mulberry  tree. 


28 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN 

FER  forty  year  and  better  you  have  been  a  friend  to  me, 
Through  days  of  sore  afflictions  and  dire  adversity, 
You  allus  had  a  kind  word  of  counsul  to  impart, 
Which  was  like  a  healin'  'intment  to  the  sorrow  of  my  hart. 

When  I  burried  my  first  womern,  William  Leachman,  it 

was  you 

Had  the  only  consolation  that  I  could  listen  to— 
Fer  I  knowed  you  had  gone  through  it  and  had  rallied 

from  the  blow, 
And  when  you  said  Fd  do  the  same,  I  knowed  you'd  ort 

to  know. 

But  that  time  I'll  long  remember;  how  I  wundered  here 

and  thare— 
Through  the  settin'-room  and  kitchen,  and  out  in  the 

open  air— 

29 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN 

And  the  snowflakes  whirlin',  whirlin',  and  the  fields  a 

frozen  glare, 
And  the  neghbors'  sleds  and  wagons  congergatin'  eVry- 

whare. 

I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  heaven,  but  the  sun  was  hid 

away; 
I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  earth  again,  but  all  was  cold  and 

gray; 
And  the  clock,  like  ice  a-crackin',  clickt  the  icy  hours  in 

two— 
And  my  eyes'd  never  thawed  out  ef  it  hadn't  been  fer 

you! 

We  set  thare  by  the  smoke-house— me  and  you  out  thare 

alone — 

Me  a-thinkin'— you  a-talkin'  in  a  soothin'  undertone— 
You  a-talkin'— me  a-thinkin'  of  the  summers  long  ago, 
And  a-writin'  "Marthy— Marthy"  with  my  finger  in  the 

snow! 

William  Leachman,  I  can  see  you  jest  as  plane  as  I  could 

then; 
And  your  hand  is  on  my  shoulder,  and  you  rouse  me  up 

again; 

30 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN 

And  I  see  the  tears  a-drippin'  from  your  own  eyes,  as  you 

say: 
"  Be  rickonciled  and  bear  it— we  but  linger  fer  a  day!" 

At  the  last  Old  Settlers'  Meetin'  we  went  j'intly,  you  and 

me — 

Your  hosses  and  my  wagon,  as  you  wanted  it  to  be; 
And  sence  I  can  remember,  from  the  time  we've  negh- 

bored  here, 
In  all  sich  friendly  actions  you  have  double-done  your 

sheer. 

It  was  better  than  the  meetin',  too,  that  9-mile  talk  we 

had 
Of  the  times  when  we  first  settled  here  and  travel  was 

so  bad; 
When  we  had  to  go  on  hoss-back,  and  sometimes  on 

"  Shanks's  mare," 
And  "  blaze  "  a  road  fer  them  behind  that  had  to  travel 

thare. 

And  now  we  was  a-trottin'  'long  a  level  gravel  pike, 
In  a  big  two-hoss  road-wagon,  jest  as  easy  as  you  like— 
Two  of  us  on  the  front  seat,  and  our  wimmern-folks 

behind, 

A-settin'  in  theyr  Winsor-cheers  in  perfect  peace  of  mind! 

31 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN 

And  we  pinted  out  old  landmarks,  nearly  faded  out  of 

sight: — 
Thare  they  ust  to  rob  the  stage-coach;  thare  Gash  Morgan 

had  the  fight 
With  the  old  stag-deer  that  pronged  him— how  he 

battled  fer  his  life, 
And  lived  to  prove  the  story  by  the  handle  of  his  knife. 


Thare  the  first  griss-mill  was  put  up  in  the  Settlement, 

and  we 

Had  tuck  our  grindin'  to  it  in  the  Fall  of  Forty-three — 
When  we  tuck  our  rifles  with  us,  techin'  elbows  all  the 

way, 
And  a-stickin'  right  together  eVry  minute,  night  and 

day. 

Thare  ust  to  stand  the  tavern  that  they  called  the 
"Travelers' Rest," 

And  thare,  beyent  the  covered  bridge,  "  The  Counter- 
fitters'  Nest  "- 

Whare  they  claimed  the  house  was  ha'nted— that  a  man 
was  murdered  thare, 

And  burried  underneath  the  floor,  er  'round  the  place 
somewhare. 

32 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN 

And  the  old  Plank-road  they  laid  along  in  Fifty-one  er 

two— 
You  know  we  talked  about  the  times  when  the  old  road 

was  new: 
How  "  Uncle  Sam  "  put  down  that  road  and  never  taxed 

the  State 
Was  a  problum,  don't  you  rickollect,  we  couldn't  dimon- 

strate? 

Ways  was  devius,  William  Leachman,  that  me  and  you 

has  past; 

But  as  I  found  you  true  at  first,  I  find  you  true  at  last; 
And,  now  the  time's  a-comin'  mighty  nigh  our  jurney's 

end, 
I  want  to  throw  wide  open  all  my  soul  to  you,  my  friend. 

With  the  stren'th  of  all  my  bein',  and  the  heat  of  hart 

and  brane, 

And  eVry  livin'  drop  of  blood  in  artery  and  vane, 
I  love  you  and  respect  you,  and  I  venerate  your  name, 
Fer  the  name  of  William  Leachman  and  True  Manhood's 

jest  the  same! 


MY  FIDDLE 

MY  fiddle  ?— Well,  I  kindo'  keep  her  handy,  don't  you  know! 
Though  I  ain't  so  much  inclined  to  tromp  the  strings  and 

switch  the  bow 

As  I  was  before  the  timber  of  my  elbows  got  so  dry, 
And  my  fingers  was  more  limber-like  and  caperish  and 
spry; 

Yit  I  can  plonk  and  plunk  and  plink, 

And  tune  her  up  and  play, 
And  jest  lean  back  and  laugh  and  wink 
At  ev'ry  rainy  day! 

My  playin'  's  only  middlin'— tunes  I  picked  up  when  a 

boy— 

The  kindo'-sorto'  fiddlin'  that  the  folks  calls  "  cordaroy  "; 
"  The  Old  Fat  Gal,"  and  "  Rye-straw,"  and  "  My  Sailyor's 

on  the  Sea," 
Is  the  old  cowtillions  /  "saw"  when  the  ch'ice  is  left  to 

me; 

34 


MY  FIDDLE 

And  so  I  plunk  and  plonk  and  plink, 

And  rosum-up  my  bow 
And  play  the  tunes  that  makes  you  think 

The  devil's  in  your  toe! 

I  was  allus  a  romancin',  do-less  boy,  to  tell  the  truth, 
A-fiddlin'  and  a-dancin',  and  a-wastin'  of  my  youth, 
And  a-actin'  and  a-cuttin'-up  all  sorts  o'  silly  pranks 
That  wasn't  worth  a  button  of  anybody's  thanks! 
But  they  tell  me,  when  I  ust  to  plink 

And  plonk  and  plunk  and  play, 
My  music  seemed  to  have  the  kink 
0'  drivin'  cares  away! 

That's  how  this  here  old  fiddle's  won  my  hart's  indurin* 

'  love! 
From  the  strings  acrost  her  middle,  to  the  schreechin' 

keys  above— 
From  her  "  apern,"  over  "  bridge,"  and  to  the  ribbon 

round  her  throat, 

She's  a  wooin',  cooin'  pigeon,  singin'  "  Love  me  "  ev'ry 
note! 

And  so  I  pat  her  neck,  and  plink 

Her  strings  with  lovin'  hands,— 
And,  list'nin'  clos't,  I  sometimes  think 
She  kindo'  understands! 
35 


THE  CLOVER 

SOME  sings  of  the  lilly,  and  daisy,  and  rose, 

And  the  pansies  and  pinks  that  the  Summertime  throws 

In  the  green  grassy  lap  of  the  medder  that  lays 

Blinkin'  up  at  the  skyes  through  the  sunshiney  days; 

But  what  is  the  lilly  and  all  of  the  rest 

Of  the  flowers,  to  a  man  with  a  hart  in  his  brest 

That  was  dipped  brimmin'  full  of  the  honey  and  dew 

Of  the  sweet  clover-blossoms  his  babyhood  knew? 

I  never  set  eyes  on  a  clover-field  now, 

Er  fool  round  a  stable,  er  climb  in  the  mow, 

But  my  childhood  comes  back  jest  as  clear  and  as  plane 

As  the  smell  of  the  clover  I'm  sniffin'  again; 

And  I  wunder  away  in  a  bare-footed  dream, 

Whare  I  tangle  my  toes  in  the  blossoms  that  gleam 

With  the  dew  of  the  dawn  of  the  morning  of  love 

Ere  it  wept  ore  the  graves  that  I'm  weepin'  above. 


THE  CLOVER 

And  so  I  love  clover— it  seems  like  a  part 
Of  the  sacerdest  sorrows  and  joys  of  my  hart; 
And  wharever  it  blossoms,  oh,  thare  let  me  bow 
And  thank  the  good  God  as  I'm  thankin'  Him  now; 
And  I  pray  to  Him  still  fer  the  stren'th  when  I  die, 
To  go  out  in  the  clover  and  tell  it  good-bye, 
And  lovin'ly  nestle  my  face  in  its  bloom 
While  my  soul  slips  away  on  a  breth  of  purfume. 


37. 


350478 


NEGHBORLY  POEMS 
ON  FRIENDSHIP,  GRIEF  AND  FARM-LIFE 

BY 

BENJ.  F.  JOHNSON,  OF  BOONE 


Us  farmer  s  in  the  country,  as  the  seasons  go  and  come, 

Is  purty  much  like  other  folks, — we're  apt  to  grumble  some! 

The  Spring's  too  backward  fer  us,  er  toofor'ard—ary  one— 

We'll  jaw  about  it  anyhow,  and  have  our  way  er  none  ! 

The  thaw's  set  in  too  suddent ;  er  the  frost's  stayed  in  the  soil 

Too  long  to  give  the  wheat  a  chance,  and  crops  is  bound  to  spoil ! 

The  weather's  eether  most  too  mild,  er  too  outrageous  rough, 

And  altogether  too  much  rain,  er  not  half  rain  enugh! 

Now  what  I'd  like  and  what  you'd  like  is  plane  enugh  to  see: 
It's  jest  to  have  old  Providence  drop  round  on  you  and  me 
And  ast  us  what  our  views  is  first,  regardin'  shine  er  rain, 
And  post  'em  when  to  shet  her  off,  er  let  her  on  again  ! 
And  yit  I'd  ruther,  after  all — considern  other  chores 
P  got  on  hands,  a-tendin'  both  to  my  affares  and  yours— 
I'd  ruther  miss  the  blame  I'd  git,  a-rulin'  things  up  thare, 
And  spend  my  extry  time  in  praise  and  gratitude  and  prayer* 


40 


ERASMUS  WILSON 

*RAS  WILSON,  I  respect  you,  'cause 
You're  common,  like  you  allus  was 
Afore  you  went  to  town  and  s'prised 
The  world  by  gittin'  "  reckonized," 
And  yit  perservin',  as  I  say, 
Your  common  boss-sense  ev'ryway! 
And  when  that  name  o'  yourn  occurs 
On  hand-bills,  er  in  newspapers, 
Er  letters  writ  by  friends  'at  ast 
About  you,  same  as  in  the  past, 
And  neghbors  and  relations  'low 
You're  out  o'  the  tall  timber  now, 
And  "  gittin'  thare  "  about  as  spry's 
The  next!— as  I  say,  when  my  eyes, 
Er  ears,  lights  on  your  name,  I  mind 
The  first  time  'at  I  come  to  find 
You— and  my  Rickollection  yells, 
Jest  jubilunt  as  old  sleigh-bells — 
41 


ERASMUS  WILSON 

"'Ras  Wilson!  Say  I  Hold  up!  and  shake 
A  paw,  fer  old  acquaintance  sake!" 

My  Rickottection,  more'n  like, 

Hain't  overly  too  apt  to  strike 

The  what's-called  "cultchurd  public  eye" 

As  wisdum  of  the  deepest  dye, — 

And  yit  my  Rickolkdion  makes 

So  blame  lots  fewer  bad  mistakes, 

Regardin'  human-natchur'  and 

The  fellers  'at  I've  shook  theyr  hand, 

Than  my  best  jedgemunfs  done,  the  day 

I've  met  'em— 'fore  I  got  away,— 

'At— Well,  'Ras  Wilson,  let  me  grip 

Your  hand  in  warmest  pardnership! 

Dad-burn  ye!— Like  to  jest  haul  back 
A'  old  flat-hander,  jest  che-whack! 
And  take  you  'twixt  the  shoulders,  say, 
Sometime  you're  lookin'  t'other  way!— 
Er,  maybe  whilse  you're  speakin'  to 
A  whole  blame  Courthouse-full  o'  'thu- 
Syastic  friends,  I'd  like  to  jest 
Come  in-like  and  break  up  the  nest 
Afore  you  hatched  anuther  cheer, 
And  say:  "'Ras,  /can't  stand  hitched  here 
42 


ERASMUS  WILSON 

All  night— ner  wouldn't  ef  I  could!— 
But  Little  Bethel  Neghborhood, 
You  ust  to  live  at,  's  sent  some  word 
Per  you,  ef  ary  chance  occurred 
To  git  it  to  ye,— so  ef  you 
Kin  stop,  I'm  waitin'  fer  ye  to!" 

You're  common,  as  I  said  afore— 
You're  common,  yit  oncommon  more. — 
You  allus  kindo'  'pear,  to  me, 
What  all  mankind  had  ort  to  be— 
Jest  natchurl,  and  the  more  hurraws 
You  git,  the  less  you  know  the  cause— 
Like  as  ef  God  Hisse'f  stood  by, 
Where  best  on  earth  hain't  half  knee-high» 
And  seein'  like,  and  knowin'  He 
'S  the  Only  Grate  Man  really, 
You're  jest  content  to  size  your  hight 
With  any  feller-man's  in  sight.— 
And  even  then  they's  scrubs,  like  me, 
Feels  stuck-up,  in  your  company! 

Like  now:— I  want  to  go  with  you 
Plum  out  o'  town  a  mile  er  two 
Clean  past  the  Fair-ground  whare's  some  hint 
0'  pennyrile  er  peppermint, 
43 


ERASMUS  WILSON 

And  bottom-lands,  and  timber  thick 
Enugh  to  sorto'  shade  the  crick! 
I  want  to  see  you— want  to  set 
Down  somers,  whare  the  grass  hain't  wet, 
And  kindo'  breathe  you,  like  puore  air— 
And  taste  o'  your  tobacker  thare, 
And  talk  and  chaw!    Talk  o'  the  birds 
We've  knocked  with  cross-bows.— Afterwards 
Drop,  mayby,  into  some  dispute 
'Bout  "  pomgrannies,"  er  cal'mus-root— 
And  how  they  growed,  and  whare?— on  tree 
Er  vine?— Who's  best  boy-memory!— 
And  wasn't  it  gingsang,  insted 
0'  cal'mus-root,  growed  like  you  said?- 
Er  how  to  tell  a  coon-track  from 
A  mussrat's;— er  how  milksick  come — 
Er  ef  cows  brung  it?— Er  why  now 
We  never  see  no  "  muley  "-cow— 
Ner  "  frizzly  "-chicken— ner  no  "clay- 
Bank"  mare— ner  nothin'  thataway!— 
And  what's  come  o'  the  yeller-coiQ 
Old  wortermelons?— hain't  no  more.-r 
Tomattusus,  the  same— all  red- 
Uns  nowadays— All  past  joys  fled— 
44 


ERASMUS  WILSON 

Each  and  all  jest  gone  k-whizz! 
Like  our  days  o'  childhood  is! 

Dag-gone  it,  'Ras!  they  hain't  no  friend, 
It  'pears-like,  left  to  comperhend 
Sich  things  as  these  but  you,  and  see 
How  dratted  sweet  they  air  to  me! 
But  you,  'at's  loved  'em  allus,  and 
Kin  sort  'em  out  and  understand 
'Em,  same  as  the  fine  books  you've  read, 
And  all  fine  thoughts  you've  writ,  er  said, 
Er  worked  out,  through  long  nights  o'  rains 
And  doubts  and  fears,  and  hopes,  again, 
As  bright  as  morning  when  she  broke,— 
You  know  a  teardrop  from  a  joke! 
And  so,  'Ras  Wilson,  stop  and  shake 
A  paw,  fer  old  acquaintance  sake! 


45 


MY  RUTHERS 

[Writ  durin'  State  Fair  at  Indanoplis,  whilse  visitin'  a  Soninlaw  then 
residin'  thare,  who  has  sence  got  back  to  the  country  whare  he  says 
a  man  that's  raised  thare  ort  to  a-stayed  in  the  first  place.] 

I  TELL  you  what  Fd  ruther  do— 

Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, — 
Fd  ruther  work  when  I  wanted  to 
Than  be  bossed  round  by  others;— 
Fd  ruther  kindo'  git  the  swing 
0'  what  was  needed,  first,  I  jing! 
Afore  I  swet  at  anything!— 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers;— 
In  fact  Fd  aim  to  be  the  same 

With  all  men  as  my  brothers; 
And  they'd  all  be  the  same  with  me— 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 

I  wouldn't  likely  know  it  all— 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers;— 
Fd  know  some  sense,  and  some  base-ball— 
46 


MY  RUTHERS 

Some  old  jokes,  and— some  others: 
I'd  know  some  politics,  and  'low 
Some  tarif-speeches  same  as  now, 
Then  go  hear  Nye  on  "  Branes  and  How 
To  Detect  Theyr  Presence."     Tothers, 
That  stayed  away,  I'd  let  'em  stay — 

All  my  dissentin'  brothers 
Could  chuse  as  shore  a  kill  er  cuore, 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 

The  pore  'ud  git  theyr  dues  sometimes — 

Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers,— 
And  be  paid  dollars  'stid  o'  dimes, 
Fer  childern,  wives  and  mothers: 
Theyr  boy  that  slaves;  theyr  girl  that  sews- 
Fer  others— not  herself,  God  knows!— 
The  grave's  her  only  change  of  clothes! 
.  .  .  Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, 
They'd  all  have  "stuff"  and  time  enugh 

To  answer  one-another's 
Appealin'  prayer  fer  "  lovin'  care  "— 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 

They'd  be  few  folks  'ud  ast  fer  trust, 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, 
47 


MY  RUTHERS 

And  blame  few  business-men  to  bu'st 
Theyrselves,  er  harts  of  others: 

Big  Guns  that  come  here  durin'  Fair- 
Week  could  put  up  jest  anywhare, 
And  find  a  full-and-plenty  thare, 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers: 
The  rich  and  great  'ud  'sociate 

With  all  theyr  lowly  brothers, 
Feelin'  we  done  the  honorun — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 


48 


ON  A  DEAD  BABE 

FLY  away!  thou  heavenly  one!— 

I  do  hail  thee  on  thy  flight! 
Sorrow?  thou  hath  tasted  none— 
Perfect  joy  is  yourn  by  right. 
Fly  away!  and  bear  our  love 
To  thy  kith  and  kin  above! 

I  can  tetch  thy  finger-tips 

Ca'mly,  and  bresh  back  the  hair 
From  thy  forced  with  my  lips, 
And  not  leave  a  teardrop  thare.— 
Weep  fer  Tomps  and  Riith— and  me- 
But  I  cannot  weep  fer  thee. 


49 


A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG 

IT'S  the  curiousest  thing  in  creation, 

Whenever  I  hear  that  old  song 
"  Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home,"  Fm  so  bothered, 

My  life  seems  as  short  as  it's  long!— 
Fer  eVrything  'pears  like  adzackly 

It  'peared  in  the  years  past  and  gone,— 
When  I  started  out  sparkin',  at  twenty, 

And  had  my  first  neckercher  on! 

Though  I'm  wrinkelder,  older  and  grayer 

Right  now  than  my  parents  was  then, 
You  strike  up  that  song  "  Do  They  Miss  Me," 

And  I'm  jest  a  youngster  again!— 
Fm  a-standin'  back  thare  in  the  furries 

A-wishin'  fer  evening  to  come, 
And  a-whisperin'  over  and  over 

Them  words  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 
50 


A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG 

You  see,  Marthy  Ellen  she  sung  it 

The  first  time  I  heerd  it;  and  so, 
As  she  was  my  very  first  sweethart, 

It  reminds  me  of  her,  don't  you  know; — 
How  her  face  ust  to  look,  in  the  twilight, 

As  I  tuck  her  to  Spellin';  and  she 
Kep'  a-hummin'  that  song  tel  I  ast  her, 

Pine-blank,  ef  she  ever  missed  me  ! 

I  can  shet  my  eyes  now,  as  you  sing  it, 

And  hear  her  low  answerin'  words; 
And  then  the  glad  chirp  of  the  crickets, 

As  clear  as  the  twitter  of  birds; 
And  the  dust  in  the  road  is  like  velvet, 

And  the  ragweed  and  fennel  and  grass 
Is  as  sweet  as  the  scent  of  the  lillies 

Of  Eden  of  old,  as  we  pass. 

"  Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home  ?  "  Sing  it  lower- 

And  softer— and  sweet  as  the  breeze 
That  powdered  our  path  with  the  snowy 

White  bloom  of  the  old  locus'-trees! 
Let  the  whipperwills  he'p  you  to  sing  it, 

And  the  echoes  'way  over  the  hill, 
Tel  the  moon  boolges  out,  in  a  chorus 

Of  stars,  and  our  voices  is  still. 
51 


A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG 

But,  oh!  "The/s  a  chord  in  the  music 

That's  missed  when  her  voice  is  away!" 
Though  I  listen  from  midnight  tel  morning, 

And  dawn  tel  the  dusk  of  the  day! 
And  I  grope  through  the  dark,  lookin'  up'ards 

And  on  through  the  heavenly  dome, 
With  my  lonein'  soul  singin'  and  sobbin* 

The  words  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 


"COON-DOG  WESS" 

"COON-DOG  WESS"— he  allus  went 
'Mongst  us  here  by  that-air  name. 

Moved  in  this-here  Settlement 
From  next  county— he  laid  claim, — 

Lived  down  in  the  bottoms— whare 

Ust  to  be  some  coons  in  thare!— 

In  nigh  Clayton's,  next  the  crick,— 

Mind  old  Billy  ust  to  say 
Coons  in  thare  was  jest  that  thick, 

He'p  him  corn-plant  any  day!— 
And,  in  rostneer-time,  be  then 
Aggin'  him  to  plant  again! 

Well,— In  Spring  o'  '67, 

This-here  "Coon-dog  Wess"  he  come- 
Fetchin'  'long  'bout  forty-'leven 

Ornriest-lookin'  hounds,  I  gum! 
53 


"COON-DOG  WESS" 

Ever  mortal-man  laid  eyes 

On  sence  dawn  o*  Christian  skies! 

Wife  come  traipsin'  at  the  rag- 

Tag-and-bobtail  of  the  crowd, 
Dogs  and  childern,  with  a  bag 

Corn-meal  and  some  side-meat,— Proud 
And  as  independunt—My! — 
Yit  a  mild  look  in  her  eye. 

Well— this  "Coon-dog  Wess"  he  jest 

Moved  in  that-air  little  pen 
Of  a  pole-shed,  aidgin'  west 

On  "The  Slues  o'  Death,"  called  then.— 
Otter-  and  mink-hunters  ust 
To  camp  thare  'fore  game  vam-moosd. 

Abul-bodied  man,— and  lots 

Call  fer  choppers— and  fer  hands 

To  git  cross-ties  out.— But  what's 
Work  to  sich  as  understands 

Ways  appinted  and  is  hence 

Under  special  providence? — 

"  Coon-dog  Wess's  "  holts  was  hounds 

And  coon-huntin';  and  he  knowed 

54 


"COON-DOG  WESS" 

His  own  range,  and  stayed  in  bounds 
And  left  work  fer  them  'at  showed 
Talents  fer  it— same  as  his 
Gifts  regardin'  coon-dogs  is. 

Hounds  of  eVry  mungerl  breed 
Ever  whelped  on  earth!— Had  these 

Teller  kind,  with  punkin-seed 
Marks  above  theyr  eyes— and  fleas 

Both  to  sell  and  keep!— Also 

These-here  lop-yeerd  hounds,  you  know. — 

Yes-and  brindle  hounds— and  long, 

Ga'nt  hounds,  with  them  eyes  they*  got 

So  blame  sorry,  it  seems  wrong, 
'Most,  to  kick  'em  as  to  not! 

Man,  though,  wouldn't  dast,  I  guess, 

Kick  a  hound  fer  "Coon-dog  Wess"! 

'Tended  to  his  own  affairs 

Stric'ly;— made  no  brags,— and  yit 
You  could  see  'at  them  hounds'  cares 

Teared  like  his,— and  he'd  a-fit 
Fer  'em,  same  as  wife  er  child! — 
Them  facts  made  folks  rickonciled, 
55 


"COON-DOG  WESS" 

Sorto',  fer  to  let  him  be 
And  not  pester  him.    And  then 

Word  begin  to  spread  'at  he 
Had  brung  in  as  high  as  ten 

Coon-pelts  in  one  night— and  yit 

Didn't  'pear  to  boast  of  it! 

Neghborhood  made  some  complaints 
'Bout  them  plague-gone  hounds  at  night 

Howlin'  fit  to  wake  the  saints, 
Clean  from  dusk  tel  plum  day-light! 

But  to  "  Coon-dog  Wess  "  them-thare 

Howls  was  "music  in  the  air"! 

Fetched  his  pelts  to  Gilson's  Store— 
Newt  he  shipped  fer  him,  and  said, 

Sence  he?d  cooned  thare,  he'd  shipped  more 
Than  three  hunderd  pelts!— "By  Ned! 

Git  shet  of  my  store"  Newt  says, 

"I'd  go  in  with  'Coon-dog  Wess' r 

And  the  feller  'peared  to  be 

Makin'  best  and  most  he  could 
Of  his  rale  prospairity:— 

Bought  some  household  things— and  good,- 
56 


"COON-DOG  WESS" 

Likewise,  wagon-load  onc't  come 
From  wharever  he'd  moved  from. 

But  pore  feller's  huntin'-days, 
'Bout  them  times,  was  glidin'  past! — 

Goes  out  onc't  one  night  and  stays  I 
.  .  .  Neghbors  they  turned  out,  at  last, 

Headed  by  his  wife  and  one 

Half-starved  hound— and  search  begun. 

Boys  said,  that  blame  hound,  he  led 

Searchin'  party,  *bout  a  half 
Mile  ahead,  and  bellerin',  said, 

Worse'n  ary  yearlin'  calf!— 
Tel,  at  last,  come  fur-off  sounds 
Like  the  howl  of  other  hounds. 

And-sir,  shore  enugh,  them  signs 
Fetched  'em— in  a'  hour  er  two — 

Whare  the  pack  was;— and  they  finds 
"  Coon-dog  Wess  "  right  thare;—An&  you 

Would  admitted  he  was  right 

Staying  as  he  had,  all  night ! 

Facts  is,  cuttin'  down  a  tree, 
The  blame  thing  had  sorto'  fell 
57 


"COON-DOG  WESS" 

In  a  twist-like— mercy  me  ! 

And  had  ketched  him.— Couldn't  tell, 
Wess  said,  how  he'd  managed— yit 
He'd  got  both  legs  under  it! 

Fainted  and  come  to,  I  s'pose, 
'Bout  a  dozen  times  whilse  they 

Chopped  him  out!— And  wife  she  froze 
To  him!— bresh  his  hair  away 

And  smile  cheerful'— only  when 

He'd  faint.— Cry  and  kiss  him  then. 

Had  his  nerve!— And  nussed  him  through,- 
Neghbors  he'pped  her— all  she'd  stand.  - 

Had  a  loom,  and  she  could  do 
Carpet-weavin'  railly  grand!— 

"  'Sides,"  she  ust  to  laugh  and  say, 

"She'd  have  Wess,  now,  night  and  day!" 

As  fer  him,  he'd  say,  says-ee, 
"I'm  resigned  to  bein'  lame:— 

They  was  four  coons  up  that  tree, 
And  hounds  got  'em,  jest  the  same!" 

Teared  like,  one  er  two  legs  less 

Never  worried  "Coon-dog  Wess"! 
58 


LINES  TO 
PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 

A.M.,  LL.  D.  T-Y-TY! 

[Cumposed  by  A  Old  Friend  of  the  Fambily  sence  'way  back  in  the 
Forties,  when  they  Settled  nigh  Fillmore,  Putnum  County,  this  State, 
whare  John  was  borned  and  growed  up,  you  might  say,  like  the  way 
side  flower.] 

YOUR  neghbors  in  the  country,  whare  you  come  from, 

hain't  f ergot!— 
We  knowed  you  even  better  than  your  own-self,  like  as 

not. 

We  profissied  your  runnin'-geers  'ud  stand  a  soggy  load 
And  pull  her,  purty  stiddy,  up  a  mighty  rocky  road: 
We  been  a-watchin*  your  career  sence  you  could  write 

your  name— 
But  way  you  writ  it  first,  I'll  say,  was  jest  a  burnin' 

shame!— 
Your  "  J.  C."  in  the  copybook,  and  "Ridpath"— mercy- 

sakes!— 
Quiled  up  and  tide  in  dubble  bows,  lookt  like  a  nest  o' 

snakes!— 

59 


PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 

But  you  could  read  it,  I  suppose,  and  kindo'  gloted  on 
A-bein'  "  J.  C.  Ridpath  "  when  we  only  called  you 
"John." 

But  you'd  work  's  well  as  fool,  and  what  you  had  to  do 

was  done : 
We've  watched  you  at  the  woodpile— not  the  woodshed— 

wasentnone,— 
And  snow  and  sleet,  and  haulin',  too,  and  lookin'  after 

stock, 
And  milkin',  nights,  and  feedin'  pigs,— then  turnin'  back 

the  clock, 

So's  you  could  set  up  studyin'  your  'Rethmatic,  and  fool 
Your  Parents,  whilse  a-piratin'  your  way  through  winter 

school! 
And  I've  heerd  tell— from  your  own  folks— you've  set 

and  baked  your  face 

A-readin'  Plutark  Slives  all  night  by  that  old  fi-er-place.— 
Yit,  'bout  them  times,  the  blackboard,  onc't,  had  on 

it,  I  efe-clare, 

"Yours  truly,  J.  Clark  Ridpath."— And  the  teacher- 
left  it  thare! 

And  they  was  other  symptums,  too,  that  pinted,  plane 
as  day, 

60 


PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 

To  nothin'  short  of  College  /—and  one  was  the  lovin'  way 
Your  mother  had  of  cheerin'  you  to  efforts  brave  and 

strong, 

And  puttin'  more  faith  in  you,  as  you  needed  it  along: 
She'd  pat  you  on  the  shoulder,  er  she'd  grab  you  by  the 

hands, 
And  laugh  sometimes,  er  cry  sometimes.— They*s  few 

that  understands 
Jest  what  theyr  mother's  drivin'  at  when  they  act 

thataway;— 
But  I'll  say  this  fer  you,  John-Clark,— you  answered, 

night  and  day, 
To  ev'ry  trust  and  hope  of  hers— and  half  your  College 

fame 
Was  battled  fer  and  won  fer  her  and  glory  of  her 

name. 

The  likes  of  you  at  College  !    But  you  went  thare.    How 

you  paid 
Your  way  nobody's  astin'— but  you  worked,— you  hain't 

afraid,— 
Your  clothes  was,  more'n  likely,  kindo'  out  o'  style, 

perhaps, 
And  not  as  snug  and  warm  as  some  'at  hid  the  other 

chaps;— 

3X 


PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 

But  when  it  come  to  Intuited— they  tell  me  yourn  was 

dressed 

A  ketle  mite  superber-like  than  any  of  the  rest! 
And  thare  you  stayed— and  thare  you've  made  your 

rickord,  fare  and  square- 
Tel  now  its  Fame  'at  writes  your  name,  approvin',  etfry- 

whare— 
Notjibblets  of  it,  nuther,— but  all  John  Clark  Ridpath, 

set 
Plum  at  the  dashboard  of  the  whole-endurin'  Alfabet! 


62 


A  TALE  OF  THE  AIRLY  DAYS 

OH!  tell  me  a  tale  of  the  airly  days— 

Of  the  times  as  they  ust  to  be; 
"Filler  of  Fi-er"  and  " Shakspeare's  Plays" 

Is  a'  most  too  deep  fer  me! 
I  want  plane  facts,  and  I  want  plane  words, 

Of  the  good  old-fashiond  ways, 
When  speech  run  free  as  the  songs  of  birds 

'Way  back  in  the  airly  days. 

Tell  me  a  tale  of  the  timber-lands — 

Of  the  old-time  pioneers; 
Somepin'  a  pore  man  understands 

With  his  feelins's  well  as  ears. 
Tell  of  the  old  log  house,— about 

The  loft,  and  the  puncheon  flore— 
The  old  fi-er-place,  with  the  crane  swung  out, 

And  the  latch-string  thrugh  the  door. 
63 


A  TALE  OF  THE  AIRLY  DAYS 

Tell  of  the  things  jest  as  they  was— 

They  don't  need  no  excuse!— 
Don't  tetch  'em  up  like  the  poets  does, 

Tel  theyr  all  too  fine  fer  use!— 
Say  they  was  'leven  in  the  fambily — 

Two  beds,  and  the  chist,  below, 
And  the  trundle-beds  that  each  helt  three, 

And  the  clock  and  the  old  bureau. 

Then  blow  the  horn  at  the  old  back-door 

Tel  the  echoes  all  halloo, 
And  the  childern  gethers  home  onc't  more, 

Jest  as  they  ust  to  do: 
Blow  fer  Pap  tel  he  hears  and  comes, 

With  Tomps  and  Elias,  too, 
A-marchin'  home,  with  the  fife  and  drums 

And  the  old  Red  White  and  Blue! 

Blow  and  blow  tel  the  sound  draps  low 

As  the  moan  of  the  whipperwill, 
And  wake  up  Mother,  and  Ruth  and  Jo, 

All  sleepin'  at  Bethel  Hill: 
Blow  and  call  tel  the  faces  all 

Shine  out  in  the  back-log's  blaze, 
And  the  shadders  dance  on  the  old  hewed  wall 

As  they  did  in  the  airly  days. 
64 


"MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE" 

"MYLO  JONES'S  wife"  was  all 

I  heerd,  mighty  near,  last  Fall— 

Visitun  relations  down 

T'other  side  of  Morgantown! 

Mylo  Jones's  wife  she  does 

This  and  that,  and  "those"  and  "thus"!- 

Can't  'bide  babies  in  her  sight— 

Ner  no  childern,  day  and  night, 

Whoopin'  round  the  premises — 

Ner  no  nothin'  else,  I  guess! 

Mylo  Jones's  wife  she  'lows 
She's  the  boss  of  her  own  house!— 
Mylo— consequences  is— 
Stays  whare  things  seem  some  like  his, — 
Uses,  mostly,  with  the  stock— 
Coaxin'  "Old  Kate"  not  to  balk, 
65 


"MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE" 

Ner  kick  hoss-flies'  branes  out,  ner 
Act,  I  s'pose,  so  much  like  her! 
Yit  the  wimmern-folks  tells  you 
She's  perfection.— Yes  they  do! 

Mylo's  wife  she  says  she's  found 
Home  hain't  home  with  men-folks  round 
When  they's  work  like  hern  to  do— 
Picklin'  pears  and  butchern,  too, 
And  a-rendern  lard,  and  then 
Cookin'  fer  a  pack  of  men 
To  come  trackin'  up  the  flore 
She's  scrubbed  tel  she'll  scrub  no  more  !- 
Yit  she'd  keep  things  clean  ef  they 
Made  her  scrub  tel  Jedgmunt  Day  ! 

Mylo  Jones's  wife  she  sews 
Carpet-rags  and  patches  clothes 
Jest  year  in  and  out  /—and  yit 
Whare's  the  livin'  use  of  it? 
She  asts  Mylo  that.— And  he 
Gits  back  whare  he'd  ruther  be, 
With  his  team;—  jest  plows— and  don't 
Never  sware— like  some  folks  won't! 
Think  ef  he'd  cut  loose,  I  gum! 
'D  he'p  his  heavenly  chances  some! 
66 


•'MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE" 

Mylo's  wife  don't  see  no  use, 
Ner  no  reason  ner  excuse 
Fer  his  pore  relations  to 
Hang  round  like  they  allus  do! 
Thare  'bout  onc't  a  year— and  she — 
She  jest  ga'nts  'em,  folks  tells  me, 
On  spiced  pears!— Pass  Mylo  one, 
He  says  "No,  he  don't  chuse  none!" 
Workin'  men  like  Mylo  they 
'D  ort  to  have  meat  ev'ry  day! 

Dad-burn  Mylo  Jones's  wife! 
Ruther  rake  a  blame  caseknife 
'Crost  my  wizzen  than  to  see 
Sich  a  womern  rulin'  me  /— 
Ruther  take  and  turn  in  and 
Raise  a  fool  mule-colt  by  hand! 
Mylo,  though— od-rot  the  man!— 
Jest  keeps  ca'm— like  some  folks  can- 
And  'lows  sich  as  her,  I  s'pose, 
Is  Man's  he*pmeet!—M.QTcy  knows! 


67 


ON  A  SPLENDUD  MATCH 

[On  the  night  of  the  marraige  of  the  f oregoin'  couple,  which  shall  be 
nameless  here,  these  lines  was  ca'mly  dashed  off  in  the  albun  of  the 
happy  bride  whilse  the  shivver-ree  was  goin'  on  outside  the  residence.] 

HE  was  warned  aginst  the  womern— 
She  was  warned  aginst  the  man. — 

And  ef  that  won't  make  a  weddin', 
Wy,  they's  nothin'  else  that  can! 


68 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES 

OLD  John  Clevenger  lets  on, 

Allus,  like  he's  purty  rough 
Timber.— He's  a  grate  old  John!— 

"Rough?"— don't  swaller  no  sich  stuff! 
Moved  here,  sence  the  war  was  through, 

From  Ohio— somers  near 
Old  Bucyrus,— loyal,  too, 

As  us  "  Hoosiers  "  is  to  here  ! 
Git  old  John  stirred  up  a  bit 

On  his  old  home  stompin'-ground— 
Talks  same  as  he  lived  thare  yit, 

When  some  subject  brings  it  round- 
Like,  fer  instunce,  Sund'y  last, 

Fetched  his  wife,  and  et  and  stayed 
All  night  with  us.— Set  and  gassed 

Tel  plum  midnight— 'cause  I  made 
Some  remark  'bout  "  buckeyes  "  and 

"What  was  buckeyes  good  fer?"— So, 
Like  I  'lowed,  he  waved  his  hand 

And  lit  in  and  let  me  know:— 
69 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES 

"'What  is  Buckeyes  good  fer?'— What's 
Pineys  andfergitmenots?— 
Honeysuckles,  and  sweet-peas, 
And  sweet-williamsuz,  and  these 
Johnny-jump-ups  eVrywhare, 
Growin'  round  the  roots  o'  trees 
In  Spring-weather?— what  air  they 
Good  fer?— kin  you  tell  me— Hey? 
'  Good  to  look  at  ? '    Well  they  air ! 
'Specially  when  Winter's  gone, 
Clean  dead-certin !  and  the  wood's 
Green  again,  and  sun  feels  good's 
June!— and  shed  your  blame  boots  on 
The  back  porch,  and  lit  out  to 
Roam  round  like  you  ust  to  do, 
Bare-foot,  up  and  down  the  crick, 
Whare  the  buckeyes  growed  so  thick, 
And  witch-hazel  and  pop-paws, 
And  hackberries  and  black-haws— 
With  wild  pizen-vines  jis  knit 
Over  and  en-nunder  it, 
And  wove  round  it  all,  I  jing! 
Tel  you  couldn't  hardly  stick 
A  durn  caseknife  through  the  thing ! 
70 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES 

Wriggle  round  through  that ;  and  then- 
All  het-up,  and  scratched  and  tanned, 
And  muskeeter-bit  and  mean- 
Feelin'— all  at  onc't  again, 
Come  out  suddent  on  a  clean 
Slopin'  little  hump  o'  green 
Dry  soft  grass,  as  fine  and  grand 
As  a  pollor-sofy!— And 
Jis  pile  down  thare!— and  tell  me 
Anywkares  you'd  ruther  be— 
'Ceptin'  right  thare,  with  the  wild- 
Flowrs  all  round  ye,  and  your  eyes 
Smilin'  with  'em  at  the  skies, 
Happy  as  a  little  child! 
Well!— right  here,  /want  to  say, 
Poets  kin  talk  all  they  please 
'Bout '  wild-flowrs,  in  colors  gay,' 
And  '  sweet  blossoms  flauntin'  theyr 
Beauteous  fragrunce  on  the  breeze '-™ 
But  the  sight  o'  buckeyes  jis 
Sweet  to  me  as  blossoms  is! 

"  I'm  Ohio-born— right  whare 
People's  all  called  *  Buckeyes '  thare— 
71 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES 

'Cause,  I  s'pose,  our  buckeye  crap's 
Biggest  in  the  world,  perhaps! — 
Ner  my  head  don't  stretch  my  hat 
Too  much  on  account  o'  that ! — 
'Cause  it's  Natchur's  ginerus  hand 
Sows  'em  broadcast  ore  the  land, 
With  eye-single  fer  man's  good 
And  the  gineral  neghborhood! 
So  buckeyes  jis  natchurly 
Tears  like  kith-and-kin  to  me  I 
'Slike  the  good  old  sayin'  wuz, 
'  Purty  is  as  purty  does  ! ' — 
We  can't  eat  'em,  cookd  er  raw— 
Yit,  I  mind,  tomattusuz 
Wuz  considerd  pizenus 
Onc't— and  dasent  eat  'em!— Pshaw— 
Twouldn't  take  me  by  supprise, 
Someday,  ef  we  et  buckeyes  ! 
That,  though,  's  nuther  here  ner  thare!- 
Jis  the  Buckeye,  whare  we  air, 
In  the  present  times,  is  what 
Ockuppies  my  lovin'  care 
And  my  most  perfoundest  thought ! 
.  .  .  Guess,  this  minute,  what  I  got 
In  my  pocket,  'at  I've  packed 
72 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES 

Purt'-nigh  forty  year.— A  dry, 
Slick  and  shiny,  warped  and  cracked, 
Wilted,  weazened  old  buckeye  ! 
What's  it  thare  fer?    What's  my  hart 
Jn  my  brest  fer?— 'Cause  it's  part 
Of  my  life— and  'tends  to  biz — 
Like  this  buckeye's  bound  to  act — 
'Cause  it  'tends  to  Rhumatiz  ! 

"...  Ketched  more  rhumatiz  than  fish, 
Semen',  onc't— and  pants  froze  on 
My  blame  legs!— And  ust  to  wish 
I  wuz  well  er  dead  and  gone  ! 
Doc  give  up  the  case,  and  shod 
His  old  hoss  again  and  stayed 
On  good  roads!— And  thare  I  laid! 
Pap  he  tuck  some  bluegrass  sod 
Steeped  in  whisky,  bilin'-hot, 
And  socked  that  on!    Then  I  got 
Sorto'  holt  o'  him,  somehow — 
Kindo'  crazy-like,  they  say— 
And  I'd  kitted  him,  like  as  not, 
Ef  I  hadn't  swooned  away! 
Smell  my  scortcht  pelt  pur?  nigh  now  ! 
Well— to  make  a  long  tale  short — 
73 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES 

I  hung  on  the  blame  disease 
Like  a  shavin'-hoss!  and  sort 
0'  wore  it  out  by  slow  degrees- 
Tel  my  legs  wuz  straight  enugh 
To  poke  through  my  pants  again 
And  kick  all  the  doctor-stuff 
In  the  fi-er-place!    Then  turned  in 
And  tuck  Daddy  Craig's  old  cuore- 
Jis  a  buckeye— and  that's  shore.— 
Hain't  no  case  o'  rhumatiz 
Kin  subsist  whare  buckeyes  is!" 


74 


THE  HOSS 

THE  boss  he  is  a  splendud  beast; 

He  is  man's  friend,  as  heaven  desined, 
And,  search  the  world  from  west  to  east, 

No  honester  you'll  ever  find! 

Some  calls  the  hoss  "  a  pore  dumb  brute," 
And  yit,  like  Him  who  died  fer  you, 

I  say,  as  I  theyr  charge  refute, 

"  'Fergive;  they  know  not  what  they  do!'" 

No  wiser  animal  makes  tracks 

Upon  these  earthly  shores,  and  hence 

Arose  the  axium,  true  as  facts, 
Extoled  by  all,  as  "Good  hoss-sense!" 

The  hoss  is  strong,  and  knows  his  strength, — 
You  hitch  him  up  a  time  er  two 
75 


THE  HOSS 

And  lash  him,  and  he'll  go  his  len'th 
And  kick  the  dashboard  out  fer  you! 

But,  treat  him  allus  good  and  kind, 
And  never  strike  him  with  a  stick, 

Ner  aggervate  him,  and  you'll  find 
He'll  never  do  a  hostile  trick. 

A  hoss  whose  master  tends  him  right 
And  worters  him  with  daily  care, 

Will  do  your  biddin'  with  delight, 
And  act  as  docile  as  you  air. 

He'll  paw  and  prance  to  hear  your  praise, 
Because  he's  learnt  to  love  you  well; 

And,  though  you  can't  tell  what  he  says, 
He'll  nicker  all  he  wants  to  tell. 

He  knows  you  when  you  slam  the  gate 
At  early  dawn,  upon  your  way 

Unto  the  barn,  and  snorts  elate, 
To  git  his  corn,  er  oats,  er  hay. 

He  knows  you,  as  the  orphant  knows 
The  folks  that  loves  her  like  theyr  own, 
76 


THE  HOSS 

And  raises  her  and  "  finds  "  her  clothes, 
And  "  schools  "  her  tel  a  womern-grown! 

I  claim  no  hoss  will  harm  a  man, 
Ner  kick,  ner  run  away,  cavort, 

Stump-suck,  er  balk,  er  "  catamaran," 
Ef  you'll  jest  treat  him  as  you  ort. 

But  when  I  see  the  beast  abused, 
And  clubbed  around  as  I've  saw  some, 

1  want  to  see  his  owner  noosed, 
And  jest  yanked  up  like  Absolum! 

Of  course  they's  differunce  in  stock,— 

A  hoss  that  has  a  little  yeer, 
And  slender  build,  and  shaller  hock, 

Can  beat  his  shadder,  mighty  near! 

Whilse  one  that's  thick  in  neck  and  chist 
And  big  in  leg  and  full  in  flank, 

That  tries  to  race,  I  still  insist 
He'll  have  to  take  the  second  rank. 

And  I  have  jest  laid  back  and  laughed, 
And  rolled  and  wallered  in  the  grass 

77 


THE  HOSS 

At  fairs,  to  see  some  heavy-draft 
Lead  out  at  first,  yit  come  in  last! 

Each  hoss  has  his  appinted  place,— 
The  heavy  hoss  should  plow  the  soil;— 

The  blooded  racer,  he  must  race, 
And  win  big  wages  fer  his  toil. 

I  never  bet— ner  never  wrought 
Upon  my  feller-man  to  bet— 

And  yit,  at  times,  I've  often  thought 
Of  my  convictions  with  regret. 

I  bless  the  hoss  from  hoof  to  head— 
From  head  to  hoof,  and  tale  to  mane!- 

I  bless  the  hoss,  as  I  have  said, 
From  head  to  hoof,  and  back  again! 

I  love  my  God  the  first  of  all, 

Then  Him  that  perished  on  the  cross, 
And  next,  my  wife,— and  then  I  fall 

Down  on  my  knees  and  love  the  hoss. 


EZRA  HOUSE 

[These  lines  was  writ,  in  rather  high  sperits,  jest  at  the  close  of 
what's  called  the  Anti  Bellum  Days,  and  more  to  be  a-foolin'  than  any 
thing  else, — though  they  is  more  er  less  facts  in  it.  But  some  of  the 
boys,  at  the  time  we  was  all  a-singin'  it,  fer  Ezry's  benefit,  to  the  old 
tune  of  "  The  Oak  and  the  Ash  and  the  Bonny  Wilier  Tree,"  got  it 
struck  off  in  the  weekly,  without  leave  er  lisence  of  mine;  and  so  sence 
they's  allus  some  of  'em  left  to  rigg  me  about  it  yit,  I  might  as  well 
claim  the  thing  right  here  and  now,  so  here  goes.  I  give  it  jest  as  it 
appeard,  fixed  up  and  grammatisized  considerable,  as  the  editer  told 
me  he  took  the  liburty  of  doin',  in  that  sturling  old  home  paper  THE 
ADVANCE — as  sound  a  paper  yit  to-day  and  as  stanch  and  abul  as  you'll 
find  in  a  hunderd.] 

COME  listen,  good  people,  while  a  story  I  do  tell, 
Of  the  sad  fate  of  one  which  I  knew  so  passing  well; 
He  enlisted  at  McCordsville,  to  battle  in  the  South, 
And  protect  his  country's  union;  his  name  was  Ezra  House. 

He  was  a  young  school-teacher,  and  educated  high 
In  regards  to  Ray's  arithmetic,  and  also  Algebra: 
He  give  good  satisfaction,  but  at  his  country's  call 
He  dropped  his  position,  his  Algebra  and  all. 

79 


EZRA  HOUSE 

"  It's  oh,  I'm  going  to  leave  you,  kind  scholars,"  he  said— 
For  he  wrote  a  composition  the  last  day  and  read; 
And  it  brought  many  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  school, 
To  say  nothing  of  his  sweetheart  he  was  going  to  leave 
so  soon. 

"  I  have  many  recollections  to  take  with  me  away, 
Of  the  merry  transpirations  in  the  school-room  so  gay; 
And  of  all  that's  past  and  gone  I  will  never  regret 
I  went  to  serve  my  country  at  the  first  of  the  outset!" 

He  was  a  good  penman,  and  the  lines  that  he  wrote 
On  that  sad  occasion  was  too  fine  for  me  to  quote,— 
For  I  was  there  and  heard  it,  and  I  ever  will  recall 
It  brought  the  happy  tears  to  the  eyes  of  us  all. 

And  when  he  left,  his  sweetheart  she  fainted  away, 
And  said  she  could  never  forget  the  sad  day 
When  her  lover  so  noble,  and  galliant  and  gay, 
Said  "  Fare  you  well,  my  true  love! "  and  went  marching 
away. 

But  he  hadn't  been  gone  for  more  than  two  months, 
When  the  sad  news  come— "he  was  in  a  skirmish  once, 
And  a  cruel  Rebel  ball  had  wounded  him  full  sore 
In  the  region  of  the  chin,  through  the  canteen  he  wore." 

80 


EZRA  HOUSE 

But  his  health  recruited  up,  and  his  wounds  they  got  well, 
But  whilst  he  was  in  battle  at  Bull  Run  or  Malvern  Hill, 
The  news  come  again,  so  sorrowful  to  hear— 
"  A  sliver  from  a  bombshell  cut  off  his  right  ear." 

But  he  stuck  to  the  boys,  and  it's  often  he  would  write, 
That  "  he  wasn't  afraid  for  his  country  to  fight." 
But  oh,  had  he  returned  on  a  furlough,  I  believe 
He  would  not,  to-day,  have  such  cause  to  grieve. 

For  in  another  battle— the  name  I  never  heard— 

He  was  guarding  the  wagons  when  an  accident  occurred,— 

A  comrade  who  was  under  the  influence  of  drink, 

Shot  him  with  a  musket  through  the  right  cheek,  I  think. 

But  his  dear  life  was  spared;  but  it  hadn't  been  for  long, 
Till  a  cruel  Rebel  colonel  come  riding  along, 
And  struck  him  with  his  sword,  as  many  do  suppose, 
For  his  cap-rim  was  cut  off,  and  also  his  nose. 

But  Providence,  who  watches  o'er  the  noble  and  the 

brave, 

Snatched  him  once  more  from  the  jaws  of  the  grave; 
And  just  a  little  while  before  the  close  of  the  war, 
He  sent  his  picture  home  to  his  girl  away  so  far. 

81 


EZRA  HOUSE 

And  she  fell  into  decline,  and  she  wrote  in  reply, 
"She  had  seen  his  face  again  and  was  ready  to  die"; 
And  she  wanted  him  to  promise,  when  she  was  in  her 

tomb, 
He  would  only  visit  that  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

But  he  never  returned  at  the  close  of  the  war, 
And  the  boys  that  got  back  said  he  hadn't  the  heart; 
But  he  got  a  position  in  a  powder-mill,  and  said 
He  hoped  to  meet  the  doom  that  his  country  denied. 


A  PEN-PICTUR' 
OF  A  CERTIN  FRIVVOLUS  OLD  MAN 

MOST  ontimely  old  man  yit ! 
Tear-like  sometimes  he  jest  tries 

His  fool-self,  and  takes  the  bitt 
In  his  teeth  and  jest  de-fies 

All  perpryties!— Lay  and  swet 
Doin'  nothin'—only  jest 

Sorto'  speckillatun  on 

Whare  old  summertimes  is  gone, 
And  'bout  things  that  he  loved  best 

When  a  youngster!    Heerd  him  say 

Springtimes  made  him  thataway — 
Speshully  on  Sundays— when 
Sun  shines  out  and  in  again, 

And  the  lonesome  old  hens  they 
Git  off  under  the  old  kern- 
Bushes,  and  in  deep  concern 
83 


A  PEN-PICTUR' 

Talk-like  to  theyrselvs,  and  scratch 

Kindo'  absunt-minded,  jest 
Like  theyr  thoughts  was  fur  away 
In  some  neghbor's  gyarden-patch 

Folks  has  tended  keerfullest! 
Heerd  the  old  man  dwell  on  these 

Idys  time  and  time  again!— 
Heerd  him  claim  that  orchurd-trees 

Bloomin',  put  the  mischief  in 
His  old  hart  sometimes  that  bad 
And  owdacious  that  he  "  had 

To  break  loose  someway,"  says  he, 

"Ornry  as  I  ust  to  be!" 

Heerd  him  say  one  time— when  I 
Was  a  sorto'  standin'  by, 

And  the  air  so  still  and  clear, 

Heerd  the  bell  fer  church  clean  here!- 
Said:  "Ef  I  could  climb  and  set 

On  the  old  three-cornerd  rail     . 
Old  home-place,  nigh  Maryette', 

Swop  my  soul  off,  hide  and  tale!" 
And-sir!  blame  ef  tear  and  laugh 
Didn't  ketch  him  half  and  half! 

"Oh!"  he  says,  "to  wake  and  be 
84 


A  PEN-PICTUR' 

Bare-foot,  in  the  airly  dawn 
In  the  pastur'!— thare,"  says  he, 

"  Standin'  whare  the  cow's  slep'  on 
The  cold,  dewy  grass  that's  got 
Print  of  her  jest  steamy  hot 

Fer  to  warm  a  feller's  heels 

In  a  while!— How  good  it  feels! 
Sund'y!— Country!— Morning!— Hear 

Nothin'  but  the  silunce—see 

Nothin'  but  green  woods  and  clear 

Skies  and  unwrit  poetry 

By  the  acre!  .  .  .Oh!"  says  he, 

"What's  this  voice  of  mine?— to  seek 
To  speak  out,  and  yit  can't  speak! 

"  Think!— the  lazyest  of  days" — 

Takin'  his  contrairyest  leap, 

He  went  on,— "git  up,  er  sleep— 
Er  whilse  feedin',  watch  the  haze 

Dancin'  'crost  the  wheat,— and  keep 
My  pipe  goin'  laisurely— 
Puff  and  whiff  as  pleases  me, — 

Er  I'll  leave  a  trail  of  smoke 
Through  the  house  /—no  one'll  say 
'  Throw  that  nasty  thing  away  ! ' 
85 


A  PEN-PICTUR* 

'Pear-like  nothin'  sacerd's  broke, 
Coin'  bare-foot  ef  I  chuse!— 

I  have  fiddled;— and  dug  bait 
And  went  fishing— pitched  boss-shoes— 
Whare  they  couldn't  see  us  from 
The  main  road.— And  I've  beat  some. 

I've  set  round  and  had  my  joke 
With  the  thrashers  at  the  barn— 
And  I've  swopped  'em  yarn  fer  yarn!— 

Er  I've  he'pped  the  childern  poke 
Fer  hens'-nests— agged  on  a  match 
Twixt  the  boys,  to  watch  'em  scratch 

And  paw  round  and  rip  and  tare, 

And  bust  buttons  and  pull  hair 
To  theyr  rompin'  harts'  content— 

And  me  jest  a-settin'  thare 
Hatchin'  out  more  devilment! 

"  What  you  s'pose  now  ort  to  be 
Done  with  sich  a  man  ?  "  says  he — 
"Sich  a  fool-old-man  as  me!" 


86 


WET-WEATHER  TALK 

IT  hain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complane; 
It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice.— 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain, 
W'y,  rain's  my  choice. 

Men  ginerly,  to  all  intents— 

Although  they're  apt  to  grumble  some — 
Puts  most  theyr  trust  in  Providence, 
And  takes  things  as  they  come — 
That  is,  the  commonality 
Of  men  that's  lived  as  long  as  me 
Has  watched  the  world  enugh  to  learn 
They're  not  the  boss  of  this  concern. 

With  some,  of  course,  it's  different — 
I've  saw  young  men  that  knowed  it  all, 

And  didn't  like  the  way  things  went 
On  this  terrestchul  ball;— 
£7. 


WET-WEATHER  TALK 

But  all  the  same,  the  rain,  some  way, 
Rained  jest  as  hard  on  picnic  day; 
Er,  when  they  railly  wanted  it, 
It  mayby  wouldn't  rain  a  bit! 

In  this  existunce,  dry  and  wet 

Will  overtake  the  best  of  men— 
Some  little  skift  o'  clouds'll  shet 
The  sun  off  now  and  then.— 

And  mayby,  whilse  you're  wundern  who 
You've  fool-like  lent  your  umbrelP  to, 
And  want  it— out'll  pop  the  sun, 
And  you'll  be  glad  you  hain't  got  none! 

It  aggervates  the  farmers,  too — 

They's  too  much  wet,  er  too  much  sun, 
Er  work,  er  waitin'  round  to  do 
Before  the  plowin'  's  done: 

And  mayby,  like  as  not,  the  wheat, 
Jest  as  it's  lookin'  hard  to  beat, 
Will  ketch  the  storm— and  jest  about 
The  time  the  corn's  a-jintin'  out. 

These-here  cy-clones  a-foolin'  round— 
And  back'ard  crops!— and  wind  and  rain!- 


WET-WEATHER  TALK 

And  yit  the  corn  that's  wallerd  down 
May  elbow  up  again!— 
They  hain't  no  sense,  as  I  can  see, 
Fer  mortuls,  sich  as  us,  to  be 
A-faultin'  Natchur's  wise  intents, 
And  lockin'  horns  with  Providence! 

It  hain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complane; 
It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice. — 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain, 
W'y,  rain's  my  choice. 


THOUGHTS  ON  A  PORE  JOKE 

I  LIKE  fun— and  I  like  jokes 
'Bout  as  well  as  most  o'  folks!— 

Like  my  joke,  and  like  my  fun;— 
But  a  joke,  I'll  state  right  here, 
'S  got  some  p'int— er  I  don't  keer 

Fer  no  joke  that  hain't  got  none.— 
I  hain't  got  no  use,  I'll  say, 
Per  a  pore  joke,  anyway! 

Frinstunce,  now,  when  some  folks  gits 
To  relyin'  on  theyr  wits, 
Ten  to  one  they  git  too  smart 
And  spik  it  all,  right  at  the  start! 
Feller  wants  to  jest  go  slow 
And  do  his  thinkin'  first,  you  know. 
*F  I  can't  think  up  somepin'  good, 
I  set  still  and  chaw  my  cood! 
'F  you  think  nothin'— jest  keep  on, 
But  don't  say  it— er  you're  gone! 
90 


A  MORTUL  PRAYER 

OH!  Thou  that  vaileth  from  all  eyes 

The  glory  of  Thy  face, 
And  setteth  throned  behind  the  skies 

In  Thy  abiding-place: 
Though  I  but  dimly  recko'nize 

Thy  purposes  of  grace; 
And  though  with  weak  and  wavering 

Deserts,  and  vexd  with  fears, 
I  lift  the  hands  I  cannot  wring 

All  dry  of  sorrow's  tears, 
Make  puore  my  prayers  that  daily  wing 

Theyr  way  unto  Thy  ears! 

Oh!  with  the  hand  that  tames  the  flood 
And  smooths  the  storm  to  rest, 

Make  ba'mmy  dews  of  all  the  blood 
That  stormeth  in  my  brest, 


A  MORTUL  PRAYER 

And  so  refresh  my  hart  to  bud 

And  bloom  the  loveliest. 
Lull  all  the  clammer  of  my  soul 

To  silunce;  bring  release 
Unto  the  brane  still  in  controle 

Of  doubts;  bid  sin  to  cease, 
And  let  the  waves  of  pashun  roll 

And  kiss  the  shores  of  peace. 

Make  me  to  love  my  feller-man— 
Yea,  though  his  bitterness 

Doth  bite  as  only  adders  can- 
Let  me  the  fault  confess, 

And  go  to  him  and  clasp  his  hand 
And  love  him  none  the  less. 

So  keep  me,  Lord,  ferever  free 
From  vane  concete  er  whim; 

And  he  whose  pius  eyes  can  see 
My  faults,  however  dim, — 

Oh!  let  him  pray  the  least  fer  me, 
And  me  the  most  fer  him. 


92 


THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRD 

JEST  rain  and  snow!  and  rain  again! 
And  dribble!  drip!  and  blow! 

Then  snow!  and  thaw!  and  slush!  and  then- 
Some  more  rain  and  snow! 

This  morning  I  was  'most  afeard 

To  wake  up— when,  I  jing! 
I  seen  the  sun  shine  out  and  heerd 

The  first  bluebird  of  Spring!— 
Mother  she'd  raised  the  winder  some;— 
And  in  acrost  the  orchurd  come, 

Soft  as  a  angel's  wing, 
A  breezy,  treesy,  beesy  hum, 

Too  sweet  fer  anything! 

The  winter's  shroud  was  rent  a-part— 

The  sun  bust  forth  in  glee,— 
And  when  that  bluebird  sung,  my  hart 

Hopped  out  o'  bed  with  me! 
93 


EVAGENE  BAKER— WHO  WAS  DYIN'  OF  DRED 

CONSUMTION  AS  THESE  LINES  WAS 

PENNED  BY  A  TRUE  FRIEND 

PORE  afflicted  Evagene! 

Whilse  the  woods  is  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  birds  on  ev'ry  hand 

Sings  in  rapture  sweet  and  grand,— 

Thou,  of  all  the  joyus  train, 

Art  bedridden,  and  in  pain 
Sich  as  only  them  can  cherish 
Who,  like  flowrs,  is  first  to  perish! 

When  the  neghbors  brought  the  word 
She  was  down,  the  folks  inferred 
It  was  jest  a  cold  she'd  caught, 
Dressin'  thinner  than  she'd  ort 
Fer  the  frolicks  and  the  fun 
Of  the  dancin'  that  she'd  done 
94 


EVAGENE  BAKER 

Tore  the  Spring  was  flush  er  ary 
Blossom  on  the  peach  er  cherry. 

But,  last  Sund'y,  her  request 

Fer  the  Church's  prayers  was  jest 

Rail  hart-renderin'  to  hear!— 

Many  was  the  silunt  tear 

And  the  tremblin'  sigh,  to  show 

She  was  dear  to  us  below 

On  this  earth— and  dearer,  even, 
When  we  thought  of  her  a-leavin*! 

Sisters  prayed,  and  coted  from 
Genesis  to  Kingdom-come 
Provin'  of  her  title  clear 
To  the  mansions. — "Even  her," 
They  claimed,  "  might  be  saved,  someway, 
Though  she'd  danced,  and  played  crowkay, 
And  wrought  on  her  folks  to  git  her 
Fancy  shoes  that  never  fit  her!" 

Us  to  pray  fer  Evagene!— 
With  her  hart  as  puore  and  clean 
As  a  rose  is  after  rain 
When  the  sun  comes  out  again!— 
95 


EVAGENE  BAKER 

What's  the  use  to  pray  f er  her  ? 

She  don't  need  no  prayin'  fer!— 
Needed,  all  her  life,  more  playin* 
Than  she  ever  needed  prayin' ! 

I  jest  thought  of  all  she'd  been 
Sence  her  mother  died,  and  when 
She  turned  in  and  done  her  part — 
All  her  cares  on  that  child-hart!— 
Thought  of  years  she'd  slaved— and  had 
Saved  the  farm— danced  and  was  glad  . 
Mayby  Him  who  marks  the  sporry 
Will  smooth  down  her  wings  tomorry! 


96 


ON  ANY  ORDENARY  MAN  IN  A  HIGH  STATE 
OF  LAUGHTURE  AND  DELIGHT 

As  it's  give'  me  to  percieve, 

I  most  certin'y  believe 

When  a  man's  jest  glad  plum  through, 

God's  pleased  with  him,  same  as  you. 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

THEY'S  a  predjudice  allus  'twixt  country  and  town 

Which  I  wisht  in  my  hart  wasent  so. 
You  take  city  people,  jest  square  up  and  down, 

And  they're  mighty  good  people  to  know: 
And  whare's  better  people  a-livin',  to-day, 

Than  us  in  the  country?— Yit  good 
As  both  of  us  is,  we're  divorsed,  you  might  say, 

And  won't  compermise  when  we  could! 

Now  as  nigh  into  town  fer  yer  Pap,  ef  you  please, 

Is  the  what's  called  the  sooburbs.— Fer  thare 
You'll  at  least  ketch  a  whiff  of  the  breeze  and  a  sniff 

Of  the  breth  of  wild-flowrs  ev'rywhare. 
They's  room  fer  the  childern  to  play,  and  grow,  too— 

And  to  roll  in  the  grass,  er  to  climb 
Up  a  tree  and  rob  nests,  like  they  orient  to  do, 

But  they'll  do  anyhow  eVry  time! 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

My  Son-in-law  said,  when  he  lived  in  the  town, 

He  jest  natchurly  pined,  night  and  day, 
Fer  a  sight  of  the  woods,  er  a  acre  of  ground 

Whare  the  trees  wasent  all  cleared  away! 
And  he  says  to  me  onc't,  whilse  a-visitin*  us 

On  the  farm,  "  It's  not  strange,  I  declare, 
That  we  can't  coax  you  folks,  without  raisin'  a 
fuss, 

To  come  to  town,  visitin*  thare!" 

And  says  I,  "  Then  git  back  whare  you  sorto'  belong- 

And  Madaline,  too,— and  yer  three 
Little  childern,"  says  I,  "  that  don't  know  a  bird- 
song, 

Ner  a  hawk  from  a  chicky-dee-dee! 
Git  back,"  I-says-I,  "  to  the  blue  of  the  sky 

And  the  green  of  the  fields,  and  the  shine 
Of  the  sun,  with  a  laugh  in  yer  voice  and  yer  eye 

As  harty  as  Mother's  and  mine!" 

Well— long-and-short  of  it,— he's  compermised  some- 
He's  moved  in  the  sooburbs.— And  now 

They  don't  haf  to  coax,  when  they  want  us  to  come, 
'Cause  we  turn  in  and  go  anyhow  ! 
99 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

Per  thare— well,  they's  room  fer  the  songs  and 

purfume 

Of  the  grove  and  the  old  orchurd-ground, 
And  they's  room  fer  the  childern  out  thare,  and 

they's  room 
Fer  theyr  Gran'pap  to  waller  'em  round! 


100 


LINES  PER  ISAAC  BRADWELL,  OF  INDANOPLIS, 
IND.,  COUNTY-SEAT  OF  MARION 

[Writ  on  the  flyleaf  of  a  volume  of  the  author's  poems  that  come 
in  one  of  gittin'  burnt  up  in  the  great  Bowen-MerrilPs  fire  of  March 
17,  1890.] 

THROUGH  fire  and  flood  this  book  has  passed. — 

Fer  what?— I  hardly  dare  to  ast — 

Less'n  it's  still  to  pamper  me 

With  extry  food  fer  vanity; — 

Fer,  sence  it's  fell  in  hands  as  true 

As  yourn  is— and  a  Hoosier  too, — 

Fm  prouder  of  the  book,  I  jing! 

Than  'fore  they  tried  to  burn  the  thing! 


101 


DECORATION  DAY  ON  THE  PLACE 

IT'S  lonesome— sorto'  lonesome,— it's  a  Sund'y-day,  to 

me, 

It  'pears-like— more'n  any  day  I  nearly  ever  see!— 
Yit,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  above,  a-flutterin'  in  the 

air, 
On  ev'ry  Soldier's  grave  I'd  love  to  lay  a  lilly  thare. 

They  say,  though,  Decoration  Days  is  giner'ly  observed 
'Most  ev'ry whares— espeshally  by  soldier-boys  that's 

served. — 
But  me  and  Mother's  never  went— we  seldom  git 

away,— 
In  p'int  o'  fact,  we're  allus  home  on  Decoration  Day. 

They  say  the  old  boys  marches  through  the  streets  in 

colum's  grand, 

A-follerin'  the  old  war-tunes  they're  playin'  on  the  band— 

102 


DECORATION  DAY  ON  THE  PLACE 

And  citizuns  all  jinin*  in— and  little  childern,  too — 
All  marchin',  under  shelter  of  the  old  Red  White  and 
Blue.— 

With  roses!  roses!  roses!— ev'rybody  in  the  town!— 
And  crowds  o'  little  girls  in  white,  jest  fairly  loaded 

down!— 
Oh!  don't  THE  BOYS  know  it,  from  theyr  camp  acrost 

the  hill?- 
Don't  they  see  theyr  com'ards  comin'  and  the  old  flag 

wavin'  still? 

Oh!  can't  they  hear  the  bugul  and  the  rattle  of  the 

drum?— 
Ain't  they  no  way  under  heavens  they  can  rickollect  us 

some? 
Ain't  they  no  way  we  can  coax  'em,  through  the  roses, 

jest  to  say 
They  know  that  eVry  day  on  earth's  theyr  Decoration 

Day? 

We've  tried  that— me  and  Mother,— whare  Elias  takes 

his  rest, 
In  the  orchurd— in  his  uniform,  and  hands  acrost  his 

brest, 

103 


DECORATION  DAY  ON  THE  PLACE 

And  the  flag  he  died  fer,  smilin'  and  a-ripplin'  in  the 

breeze 
Above  his  grave— and  over  that,— the  robin  in  the  trees! 

And  yit  it's  lonesome— lonesome!— It's  a  Sunday-day,  to 

me, 

It  'pears-like— more'n  any  day  I  nearly  ever  seel- 
Still,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  above,  a-flutterin'  in  the 

air, 
On  ev'ry  Soldier's  grave  I'd  love  to  lay  a  lilly  thare. 


104 


THE   TREE-TOAD 

"  'S  CUR'OUS-LIKE,"  said  the  tree-toad, 
"  I've  twittered  fer  rain  all  day; 

And  I  got  up  soon, 

And  hollered  tel  noon— 
But  the  sun,  hit  blazed  away, 

Tel  I  jest  dumb  down  in  a  crawfish-hole, 

Weary  at  hart,  and  sick  at  soul! 

"  Dozed  away  fer  an  hour, 
And  I  tackled  the  thing  agin: 

And  I  sung,  and  sung, 

Tel  I  knowed  my  lung 
Was  jest  about  give  in; 

And  then,  thinks  I,  ef  hit  don't  rain  now, 

They's  nothin'  in  singin',  anyhow! 

"  Onc't  in  a  while  some  farmer 
Would  come  a-drivin'  past; 
105 


THE    TREE-TOAD 

And  he'd  hear  my  cry, 
And  stop  and  sigh— 
Tel  I  jest  laid  back,  at  last, 

And  I  hollered  rain  tel  I  thought  my  th'oat 
Would  bust  wide  open  at  ever'  note! 

"But  I  fetched  her!— 0  I  fetched  her!— 
'Cause  a  little  while  ago, 

As  I  kindo'  set, 

With  one  eye  shet, 
And  a-singin'  soft  and  low, 

A  voice  drapped  down  on  my  fevered  brain, 

A-sayin',— 'Ef  you'll  jest  hush  I'll  rain!'" 


106 


THE    ROSSVILLE    LECTUR'  COURSE 

[Set  down  from  the  real  facts  of  the  case  that  come  under  notice  of 
the  author  whilse  visitun  far  distunt  relatives  who  wuz  then  residin' 
at  Rossville,  Mich.] 

FOLKS  up  here  at  Rossville  got  up  a  Lectur*  Course:— 
All  the  leadin'  citizens  they  wuz  out  in  force; 
Met  and  talked  at  Williamses',  and  'greed  to  meet  ag'in; 
And  helt  another  corkus  when  the  next  reports  wuz  in: 
Met  ag'in  at  Samuelses';  and  met  ag'in  at  Moore's, 
And  Johnts  putt  the  shutters  up  and  jest  barr'd  the 

doors!— 

And  yit,  I'll  jest  be  dagg-don'd!  eft  didn't  take  a  week 
'Fore  we'd  settled  whare  to  write  to  git  a  man  to  speak! 

Found  out  whare  the  "Bureau"  wuz;  and  then  and  thare 

agreed 

To  strike  whilse  the  iron's  hot  and  f oiler  up  the  lead.— 
Simp  wuz  Secatary;  so  he  tuk  his  pen  in  hand, 
And  ast  'em  what  they'd  tax  us  fer  the  one  on  "  Holy 

Land"- 

107 


THE  ROSSVILLE  1.ECTUR'   COURSE 

"  One  of  Colonel  J.  De-Koombs's  Abelust  and  Best 
Lectur's,"  the  circ'lar  stated,  "Give  East  er  West!" 
Wanted  fifty  dollars  and  his  kyar-fare  to  and  from, 
And  Simp  wuz  hence  instructed  fer  to  write  him  not  to 
come. 

Then  we  talked  and  jawed  around  another  week  er  so, 
And  writ  the  "  Bureau  "  'bout  the  town  a-bein'  sorto' 

slow— 

Old-fogey-like,  and  pore  as  dirt,  and  lackin'  interprise, 
And  ignornter'n  any  other,  'cordin'  to  its  size: 
Tel  finully  the  "Bureau"  said  they'd  send  a  cheaper  man 
Fer  forty  dollars,  who  would  give  "  A  Talk  About 

Japan  "— 
"A  reg'lar  Japanee  hise'f,"  the  pamphlet  claimed;  and 

so, 
Nobody  knowed  his  languige,  and  of  course  we  let  him 

go! 

Kindo'  then  let  up  a  spell— but  rallied  onc't  ag'in, 
And  writ  to  price  a  feller  on  what's  called  the  "  violin  "— 
A  Swede,  er  Pole,  er  somepin'— but  no  matter  what  he 

wuz, 
Doc  Cooper  said  he'd  heerd  him,  and  he  wuzn't  wuth  a 

kuss! 

108 


THE   ROSSVILLE   LECTUR'   COURSE 

And  then  we  ast  fer  Swingse's  terms;  and  Cook,  and 

Ingersoll— 

And  blame!  ef  forty  dollars  looked  like  anything  at  all! 
And  then  Burdette,  we  tried  fer  him;  and  Bob  he  writ  to 

say 
He  wuz  busy  writin'  ortographts  and  couldn't  git  away. 


At  last— along  in  Aprile— we  signed  to  take  this-here 
Bill  Nye  of  Californy,  'at  wuz  posted  to  appear 
"  The  Comicalest  Funny  Man  'at  Ever  Jammed  a  Hall ! " 
So  we  made  big  preperations,  and  swep'  out  the  church 

and  all! 
And  night  he  wuz  to  lectur',  and  the  neghbors  all  wuz 

thare, 
And  strangers  packed  along  the  aisles  'at  come  from 

ev'rywhare, 

Committee  got  a  telegrapht  the  preacher  read,  'at  run— 
"  Got  off  at  Rossville,  Indiany,  'stid  of  Michigun." 


109 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  GITS  BACK  IN  THE  TREES 

IN  Spring,  when  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees, 

And  the  sun  comes  out  and  stays, 
And  yer  boots  pulls  on  with  a  good  tight  squeeze, 

And  you  think  of  yer  bare-foot  days; 
When  you  ort  to  work  and  you  want  to  not, 

And  you  and  yer  wife  agrees 
It's  time  to  spade  up  the  garden-lot, 

When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees- 
Well!  work  is  the  least  o'  my  idees 
When  the  green,  you  know,  gits  back  in  the  trees  ! 

When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees,  and  bees 

Is  a-buzzin'  aroun'  ag'in 
In  that  kind  of  a  lazy  go-as-you-please 

Old  gait  they  bum  roun'  in; 
When  the  groun's  all  bald  whare  the  hay-rick  stood, 

And  the  crick's  riz,  and  the  breeze 
110 


WHEN   THE   GREEN   GITS    BACK   IN   THE   TREES 

Coaxes  the  bloom  in  the  old  dogwood, 
And  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees,— 
I  like,  as  I  say,  in  sich  scenes  as  these, 
The  time  when  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees! 

When  the  whole  tail-fethers  o'  Wintertime 

Is  all  pulled  out  and  gone! 
And  the  sap  it  thaws  and  begins  to  climb, 

And  the  swet  it  starts  out  on 
A  feller's  forred,  a-gittin'  down 

At  the  old  spring  on  his  knees— 
I  kindo'  like  jest  a-loaferin'  roun' 

When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees- 
Jest  a-potterin'  roun'  as  I— durn— please- 
When  the  green,  you  know,  gits  back  in  the  trees! 


Ill 


HOW  IT  HAPPENED 

I  GOT  to  thinkin'  of  her— both  her  parunts  dead  and 

gone— 
And  all  her  sisters  married  off,  and  none  but  her  and 

John 

A-livin'  all  alone  thare  in  that  lonesome  sorto'  way, 
And  him  a  blame  old  bachelor,  confirmder  eVry  day! 
I'd  knowed  'em  all,  from  childern,  and  theyr  daddy  from 

the  time 

He  settled  in  the  neghborhood,  and  hadn't  ary  a  dime 
Er  dollar,  when  he  married,  fer  to  start  housekeepin' 

on!— 
So  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her— both  her  parunts  dead  and 

gone! 

I  got  to  thinkin1  of  her;  and  a-wundern  what  she  done 
That  all  her  sisters  kep'  a-gittin'  married,  one  by  one, 

112 


HOW  IT  HAPPENED 

And  her  without  no  chances— and  the  best  girl  of  the 

pack— 
A'  old  maid,  with  her  hands,  you  might  say,  tied  behind 

her  back! 

And  Mother,  too,  afore  she  died,— she  ust  to  jest  take  on, 
When  none  of  'em  wuz  left,  you  know,  but  Evaline  and 

John, 
And  jest  declare  to  goodness  'at  the  young  men  must  be 

bline 
To  not  see  what  a  wife  they'd  git  ef  they  got  Evaline! 

I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her:  In  my  great  affliction  she 
Wuz  sich  a  comfert  to  us,  and  so  kind  and  neghborly,— 
She'd  come,  and  leave  her  housework,  fer  to  he'p  out 

little  Jane, 

And  talk  of  her  own  mother  'at  she'd  never  see  again— 
They'd  sometimes  cry  together— though,  fer  the  most 

part,  she 

Would  have  the  child  so  rickonciled  and  happy-like  'at  we 
Felt  lonesomer'n  ever  when  she'd  putt  her  bonnet  on 
And  say  she'd  railly  hafto  be  a-gittin'  back  to  John! 

I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her,  as  I  say,— and  more  and  more 
I'd  think  of  her  dependence,  and  the  burdens  'at  she 
bore,— 

113 


HOW  IT  HAPPENED 

Her  parunts  both  a-bein'  dead,  and  all  her  sisters  gone 
And  married  off,  and  her  a-livin'  thare  alone  with  John— 
You  might  say  jest  a-toilin'  and  a-slavin'  out  her  life 
Fer  a  man  'at  hadn't  pride  enugh  to  git  hisse'f  a  wife— 
'Less  some  one  married  Evaline  and  packed  her  off 

some  day!—    ,. 
So  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her— and— It  happened  thataway. 


114 


A  DOST  O'  BLUES 

F  GOT  no  patience  with  blues  at  all! 

And  I  ust  to  kindo'  talk 
Aginst  'em,  and  claim,  tel  along  last  Fall, 

They  wuz  none  in  the  fambly  stock; 
But  a  nephew  of  mine,  from  Eelinoy, 

That  visitud  us  last  year, 
He  kindo'  convinct  me  differunt 

Whilse  he  wuz  a-stayin'  here. 

From  ev'ry-which-way  that  blues  is  from, 

They'd  pester  him  etfry-vtays; 
They'd  come  to  him  in  the  night,  and  come 

On  Sundys,  and  rainy  days; 
They'd  tackle  him  in  corn-plantin'  time, 

And  in  harvest,  and  airly  Fall,— 
But  a  dos't  o'  blues  in  the  Wintertime, 

He  'lowed,  wuz  the  worst  of  all! 
115 


A  DOS'T  O'  BLUES 

Said  "All  diseases  that  ever  he  had— 

The  mumps,  er  the  rhumatiz— 
Er  ev'ry-other-day-aigger— bad 

As  ever  the  blame  thing  is!— 
Er  a  cyarbuncle,  say,  on  the  back  of  his  neck. 

Er  a  felon  on  his  thumb, — 
But  you  keep  the  blues  away  from  him, 

And  all  o'  the  rest  could  come!" 

And  he'd  moan,  "  They's  nary  a  leaf  below! 

Ner  a  spear  o'  grass  in  sight! 
And  the  whole  woodpile's  clean  under  snow! 

And  the  days  is  dark  as  night! 
You  can't  go  out— ner  you  can't  stay  in— 

Lay  down— stand  up— ner  set!" 
And  a  tetch  o'  regular  tyfoid-blues 

Would  double  him  jest  clean  shet! 

I  writ  his  parunts  a  postal-kyard 

He  could  stay  tel  Springtime  come; 
And  Aprile— first,  as  I  rickollect— 

Wuz  the  day  we  shipped  him  home! 
Most  o'  his  relatives,  sence  then, 

Has  eether  give  up,  er  quit, 
Er  jest  died  off;  but  I  understand 

He's  the  same  old  color  yit! 
116 


THE  OLD  HOME  BY  THE  MILL 

THIS  is  "  The  old  Home  by  the  Mill "— fer  we  still  call 

it  so, 

Although  the  old  mill,  roof  and  sill,  is  all  gone  long  ago. 
The  old  home,  though,  and  the  old  folks— the  old  spring, 

and  a  few 
Old  cattails,  weeds  and  hartychokes,  is  left  to  welcome 

you! 

Here,  Marg'et!— fetch  the  man  a  tin  to  drink  out  of! 
Our  spring 

Keeps  kindo'-sorto'  cavin'  in,  but  don't  "  taste  "  any 
thing! 

She's  kindo'  oj/dn',  Marg'et  is— "the  old  process"—  like 
me, 

All  ham-stringed  up  with  rhumatiz,  and  on  in  seventy- 
three. 

117 


THE  OLD  HOME  BY  THE  MILL 

Jest  me  and  Market  lives  alone  here— like  in  long  ago; 

The  childern  all  putt  off  and  gone,  and  married,  don't 
you  know? 

One's  millin'  'way  out  West  somewhare;  two  other  miller- 
boys 

In  Minnyopolis  they  air;  and  one's  in  Illinoise. 


The  oldest  gyrl— the  first  that  went— married  and  died 

right  here; 
The  next  lives  in  Winn's  Settlement— fer  purt'-nigh 

thirty  year! 
And  youngest  one— was  allus  fer  the  old  home  here— 

but  no!— 
Her  man  turns  in  and  he  packs  her  'way  off  to  Idyho! 


I  don't  miss  them  like  Marg'et  does— 'cause  I  got  her, 

you  see; 
And  when  she  pines  for  them— that's  'cause  she's  only 

jest  got  me  ! 
I  laugh,  and  joke  her  'bout  it  all.— But  talkin'  sense,  I'll 

say, 
When  she  was  tuk  so  bad  last  Fall,  I  laughed  then  t'other 

way! 

118 


THE  OLD  HOME  BY  THE  MILL 

I  hain't  so  favor'ble  impressed  'bout  dyin';  but  ef  I 
Found  I  was  only  second-best  when  us  two  come  to  die, 
I'd  'dopt  the  "  new  process  "  in  full,  ef  Market  died,  you 

see,— 
Fd  jest  crawl  in  my  grave  and  pull  the  green  grass  over 

me! 


119 


THE  WAY  IT  WUZ 

LAS'  July— and,  I  persume, 

'Bout  as  hot 
As  the  old  Gran'-Jury  room 

Whare  they  sot!— 

Fight  'twixt  Mike  and  Dock  McGreff.  .  . 
Tears  to  me  jest  like  as  ef 
Fd  a-dremp'  the  whole  blame  thing— 

Allus  ha'nts  me  roun'  the  gizzard 
When  they's  nightmares  on  the  wing 

And  a  feller's  blood's  jes'  friz! 
Seed  the  row  from  A  to  Izzard— 
'Cause  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clos't  to  'em 
As  me  and  you  is! 

Tell  you  the  way  it  wuz— 

And  I  don't  want  to  see, 
Like  some  fellers  does, 

When  they's  goern  to  be 
Any  kind  o'  fuss— 
On'y  makes  a  rumpus  wuss 
120 


THE  WAY  IT  WUZ 

Fer  to  interfere 

When  theyr  dander's  riz— 
Might  as  lif  to  cheer! 
But  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clos't  to  'em 

As  me  and  you  is! 

I  wuz  kindo'  strayin' 

Past  the  blame  saloon— 
Heerd  some  fiddler  playin' 

That  old  "Hee-cup  tune!" 
I'd  stopped-like,  you  know, 
Fer  a  minit  er  so, 

And  wuz  jest  about 
Settin'  down,  vfhen—Jeemses-whizz!^ 

Whole  durn  winder-sash  fell  out! 
And  thare  laid  Dock  McGreff,  and  Mike 
A-straddlin'  him,  all  bloody-like, 

And  both  a-gittin'  down  to  biz! — 
And  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clos't  to  'em 
As  me  and  you  is! 

I  wuz  the  on'y  man  aroun'— 
(Durn  old-fogey  town! 

'Feared  more  like,  to  me, 

SuncTy  than  Saturday  /) 
121 


THE  WAY  IT  WUZ 

Dog  come  'crost  the  road 
And  tuk  a  smell 

And  putt  right  back: 
Mishler  driv  by  'ith  a  load 
0'  cantalo'pes  he  couldn't  sell- 
Too  mad,  'i  jack! 
To  even  ast 

What  wuz  up,  as  he  went  past! 
Weather  most  outrageous  hot! — 

Fairly  hear  it  sizz 

Roun'  Dock  and  Mike— tel  Dock  he  shot, — 
And  Mike  he  slacked  that  grip  o'  his 
And  fell,  all  spraddled  out.    Dock  riz 
'Bout  half  up,  a-spittin'  red, 
And  shuck  his  head.  .  .  . 
And  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clos't  to  'em 
As  me  and  you  is! 

And  Dock  he  says, 

A-whisperin'-like,  — 

"  It  hain't  no  use 

A-tryin'!— Mike 

He's  jest  ripped  my  daylights  loose! — 
Git  that  blame-don  fiddler  to 
Let  up,  and  come  out  here— You 
122 


THE  WAY  IT  WUZ 

Got  some  burryin'  to  do,— 

Mike  makes  one,  and,  I  expects, 

'Bout  ten  seconds,  I'll  make  two  !  " 
And  he  drapped  back,  whare  he'd  riz, 

'Crost  Mike's  body,  black  and  blue, 
Like  a  great  big  letter  X!— 

And  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clos't  to  'em 
As  me  and  you  is! 


123 


PAP'S  OLD  SAYIN' 

PAP  had  one  old-fashioned  sayin* 

That  I'll  never  quite  fergit— 
And  they's  seven  growed-up  childern 

Of  us  rickollects  it  yit  !— 
Settin'  round  the  dinner-table, 

Talkin'  'bout  our  friends,  perhaps, 
Er  abusin'  of  our  neghbors, 

I  kin  hear  them  words  o'  Pap's— 
"Shet  up,  and  eat  yer  vittels!" 

Pap  he'd  never  argy  with  us, 
Ner  cut  any  subject  short 

Whilse  we  all  kep'  clear  o'  gossip, 
And  wuz  actin'  as  we  ort: 

But  ef  we'd  git  out  o'  order- 
Like  sometimes  a  fambly  is,— 

Faultin'  folks,  er  one  another, 
Then  we'd  hear  that  voice  o'  his — 
"Shet  up,  and  eat  yer  vittels!" 
124 


PAP'S  OLD  SAYIN' 

Wuz  no  hand  hisse'f  at  talkin' — 

Never  hadn't  much  to  say, — 
Only,  as  I  said,  pervidin' 

When  we'd  rile  him  thataway: 
Then  he'd  allus  lose  his  temper 

Spite  o'  fate,  and  jerk  his  head 
And  slam  down  his  caseknife  vicious' 

Whilse  he  glared  around  and  said — 
"Shet  up,  and  eat  yer  vittels!" 

Mind  last  time  'at  Pap  was  ailin' 

With  a  misery  in  his  side, 
And  had  hobbled  in  the  kitchen — 

Jest  the  day  before  he  died,— 
Laury  Jane  she  ups  and  tells  him, 

"Pap,  you're  pale  as  pale  kin  be— 
Hain't  ye  'feard  them-air  cowcumbers 

Hain't  good  fer  ye?"    And  says  he, 
"Shet  up,  and  eat  yer  vittels!" 

Well !  I've  saw  a-many  a  sorrow,— 
Forty  year',  through  thick  and  thin; 

I've  got  best,— and  I've  got  wars' ted, 

Time  and  time  and  time  ag'in!— 

125 


PAP'S  OLD  SAYIN 

But  I've  met  a-many  a  trouble 
That  I  hain't  run  onto  twice, 

Haltin'-like  and  thinkin'  over 
Them-air  words  o'  Pap's  advice: 
"Shet  up,  and  eat  yer  vittels!" 


126 


ROMANCIN' 

F  B'EN  a-kindo'  "  musin',"  as  the  feller  says,  and  I'm 
About  o'  the  conclusion  that  they  hain't  no  better  time, 
When  you  come  to  cipher  on  it,  than  the  times  we  ust 

to  know 
When  we  swore  our  first  "  dog-gone-it "  sorto'  solum-like 

and  low! 

You  git  my  idy,  do  you?— Little  tads,  you  understand— 
Jest  a-wishin'  thue  and  thue  you  that  you  on'y  wuz  a 

man.— 

Yit  here  I  am,  this  minit,  even  sixty,  to  a  day, 
And  fergittin'  all  that's  in  it,  wishin'  jest  the  other  way! 

I  hain't  no  hand  to  lectur*  on  the  times,  er  demonstrate 
Whare  the  trouble  is,  er  hector  and  domineer  with 

Fate,— 

But  when  I  git  so  flurried,  and  so  pestered-like  and  blue, 
And  so  rail  owdacious  worried,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  do!— 

127 


ROMANCIN' 

1  jest  gee-haw  the  bosses,  and  onhook  the  swingle-tree, 
Whare  the  hazel-bushes  tosses  down  theyr  shadders 

over  me; 
And  I  draw  my  plug  o'  navy,  and  I  climb  the  fence,  and 

set 
Jest  a-thinkin'  here,  i  gravy!  tel  my  eyes  is  wringin'-wet! 

Tho'  I  still  kin  see  the  trouble  o'  the  presunt,  I  kin  see— 
Kindo'  like  my  sight  wuz  double— all  the  things  that 

ust  to  be; 

And  the  flutter  o'  the  robin  and  the  teeter  o'  the  wren 
Sets  the  wilier-branches  bobbin'  "  howdy-do  "  thum  Now 

to  Then! 

The  deadnin'  and  the  thicket's  jest  a-bilin'  full  of  June, 
Thum  the  rattle  o'  the  cricket,  to  the  yallar-hammer's 

tune; 
And  the  catbird  in  the  bottom,  and  the  sapsuck  on  the 

snag, 
Seems  ef  they  can't— od-rot  'em!— jest  do  nothin'  else 

but  brag! 

They's  music  in  the  twitter  of  the  bluebird  and  the  jay, 
And  that  sassy  little  critter  jest  a-peckin'  all  the  day; 

128 


ROMANCIN' 

They's  music  in  the  "  flicker,"  and  they's  music  in  the 

thrush, 
And  they's  music  in  the  snicker  o'  the  chipmunk  in  the 

brush! 

They's  music  all  around  me!— And  I  go  back,  in  a  dream 
Sweeter  yit  than  ever  found  me  fast  asleep,— and  in  the 

stream 
That  ust  to  split  the  medder  whare  the  dandylions 

growed, 
I  stand  knee-deep,  and  redder  than  the  sunset  down  the 

road. 

Then's  when  F  b'en  a-fishin'!— And  they's  other  fellers, 

too, 
With  theyr  hick'ry-poles  a-swishin'  out  behind  'em;  and 

a  few 
Little  "  shiners  "  on  our  stringers,  with  theyr  tails  tip- 

toein'  bloom, 
As  we  dance  'em  in  our  fingers  all  the  happy  jurney 

home. 

I  kin  see  us,  true  to  Natur5,  thum  the  time  we  started 

out, 

With  a  biscuit  and  a  'tater  in  our  little  "  roundabout  "!— 

129 


ROMANCIN' 

I  kin  see  our  lines  a-tanglin',  and  our  elbows  in  a  jam, 
And  our  naked  legs  a-danglin'  thum  the  apern  o'  the 
dam. 

1  kin  see  the  honeysuckle  climbin'  up  around  the  mill, 
And  kin  hear  the  worter  chuckle,  and  the  wheel  a-growl- 

in'  still; 

And  thum  the  bank  below  it  I  kin  steal  the  old  canoe, 
And  jest  git  in  and  row  it  like  the  miller  ust  to  do. 

Wy,  I  git  my  fancy  focussed  on  the  past  so  mortul  plane 
I  kin  even  smell  the  locus'-blossoms  bloomin'  in  the  lane; 
And  I  hear  the  cow-bells  clinkin'  sweeter  tunes  'n 

"  Money-musk  " 
Fer  the  lightnin'-bugs  a-blinkin'  and  a-dancin'  in  the 

dusk. 

And  when  I've  kep'  on  "  musin',"  as  the  feller  says, 

telTm 
Firm-fixed  in  the  conclusion  that  they  hain't  no  better 

time, 
When  you  come  to  cipher  on  it,  than  the  old  times,— I 

de-clare 
I  kin  wake  and  say  "dog-gone-it!"  jest  as  soft  as  any 

prayer! 

130 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

By  Benjamin  F.  Johnson  of  Boone,  as  retold  by  an  auditor 

WILLIAM  WILLIAMS  his  name  was— er  so  he  said;— Bill 
Williams  they  called  him,  and  them  'at  knowed  him  best 
called  him  Bill  Bills. 

The  first  I  seed  o'  Bills  was  about  two  weeks  after  he 
got  here.  The  Settlement  wasn't  nothin'  but  a  baby  in 
them  days,  fer  I  mind  'at  old  Ezry  Sturgiss  had  jist  got 
his  saw  and  griss-mill  a-goin',  and  Bills  had  come  along 
and  claimed  to  know  all  about  millin',  and  got  a  job  with 
him;  and  millers  in  them  times  was  wanted  worse'n  con- 
gerssmen,  and  I  reckon  got  better  wages;  fer  afore  Ezry 
built,  there  wasn't  a  dust  o'  meal  er  flour  to  be  had  short 
o'  the  White  Water,  better'n  sixty  mil'd  from  here,  the 
way  we  had  to  fetch  it.  And  they  used  to  come  to  Ezry's 
fer  their  grindin'  as  fur  as  that;  and  one  feller  I  knowed 
to  come  from  what  used  to  be  the  old  South  Fork,  over 
eighty  mile'd  from  here,  and  in  the  wettest,  rainiest  wea 
ther;  and  mud!  Law! 

133 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

Well,  this-here  Bills  was  a-workin'  fer  Ezry  at  the  time 
—part  the  time  a-grindin',  and  part  the  time  a-lookin' 
after  the  sawin',  and  gittin'  out  timber  and  the  like. 
Bills  was  a  queer-lookin'  feller,  shore!  About  as  tall  a 
build  man  as  Tom  Carter— but  of  course  you  don't  know 
nothin'  o'  Tom  Carter.  A  great  big  hulk  of  a  feller,  Tom 
was;  and  as  fur  back  as  Fifty-eight  used  to  make  his  brags 
that  he  could  cut  and  putt  up  his  seven  cord  a  day. 

Well,  what  give  Bills  this  queer  look,  as  I  was  a-goin' 
on  to  say,  was  a  great  big  ugly  scar  a-runnin'  from  the 
corner  o'  one  eye  clean  down  his  face  and  neck,  and  I 
don't  know  how  fur  down  his  breast— awful  lookin';  and 
he  never  shaved,  and  there  wasn't  a  hair  a-growin'  in  that 
scar,  and  it  looked  like  a— some  kind  o'  pizen  snake  er 
somepin'  a-crawlin'  in  the  grass  and  weeds.  I  never  seed 
sich  a*  out-and-out  ornry-lookin'  chap,  and  I'll  never  f  ergit 
the  first  time  I  set  eyes  on  him. 

Steve  and  me— Steve  was  my  youngest  brother;  Steve's 
be'n  in  Calif orny  now  fer,  le'  me  see,— well,  anyways,  I 
rickon,  over  thirty  year.— Steve  was  a-drivin'  the  team 
at  the  time— I  allus  let  Steve  drive;  'peared  like  Steve 
was  made  a-purpose  fer  bosses.  The  beatin'est  hand 
with  bosses  'at  ever  you  did  see  and-I-know!  W'y,  a  boss, 
after  he  got  kindo'  used  to  Steve  a-handlin'  of  him, 
would  do  anything  fer  him  !  And  I've  knowed  that  boy 

134 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

to  swap  fer  bosses  'at  couldn't  hardly  make  a  shadder; 
and,  afore  you  knowed  it,  Steve  would  have  'em  a-cavort- 
in'  around  a-lookin'  as  peert  and  fat  and  slick! 

Well,  we'd  come  over  to  Ezry's  fer  some  grindin'  that 
day;  and  Steve  wanted  to  price  some  lumber  fer  a  house, 
intendin'  to  marry  that  Fall— and  would  a-married,  I 
reckon,  ef  the  girl  hadn't  a-died  jist  as  she'd  got  her 
weddin'  clothes  done— and  that  set  hard  on  Steve  fer 
a  while.  Yit  he  rallied,  you  know,  as  a  youngster  will; 
but  he  never  married,  someway— never  married.  Reckon 
he  never  found  no  other  woman  he  could  love  well  enough 
—'less  it  was— well,  no  odds.— The  Good  Bein's  jedge  o' 
what's  best  fer  each  and  all. 

We  lived  then  about  eight  mile'd  from  Ezry's,  and  it  tuck 
about  a  day  to  make  the  trip;  so  you  kin  kindo'  git  an 
idy  o'  how  the  roads  was  in  them  days. 

Well,  on  the  way  over  I  noticed  Steve  was  mighty  quiet- 
like,  but  I  didn't  think  nothin'  of  it,  tel  at  last  he  says, 
says  he,  "  Ben,  I  want  you  to  kindo'  keep  an  eye  out  fer 
Ezry's  new  hand  "— meanin'  Bills.  And  then  I  kindo'  sus- 
picioned  somepin'  o'  nother  was  up  betwixt  'em;  and  shore 
enough  there  was,  as  I  found  out  afore  the  day  was  over. 

I  knowed  'at  Bills  was  a  mean  sort  of  a  man,  from  what 
I'd  heerd.  His  name  was  all  over  the  neighborhood  afore 
he'd  be'n  here  two  weeks. 

135 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

In  the  first  place,  he  come  in  a  suspicious  sorto'  way: 
Him  and  his  wife,  and  a  little  baby  on'y  a  few  months 
old,  come  through  in  a  kiwered  wagon  with  a  fambly 
a-goin'  som'ers  in  The  Illinoy;  and  they  stopped  at  the 
mill,  fer  some  meal  er  somepin',  and  Bills  got  to  talkin' 
with  Ezry  'bout  millin',  and  one  thing  o'  nother,  and  said 
he  was  expeerenced  some  'bout  a  mill  hisse'f,  and  told 
Ezry  ef  he'd  give  him  work  he'd  stop;  said  his  wife  and 
baby  wasn't  strong  enough  to  stand  traVlin',  and  ef 
Ezry'd  give  him  work  he  was  ready  to  lick  into  it  then 
and  there;  said  his  woman  could  pay  her  board  by  sewin' 
and  the  like,  tel  they  got  ahead  a  little;  and  then,  ef  he 
liked  the  neighborhood,  he  said  he'd  as  lif  settle  there 
as  anywheres;  he  was  huntin'  a  home,  he  said,  and  the 
outlook  kindo'  struck  him,  and  his  woman  railly  needed 
rest,  and  wasn't  strong  enough  to  go  much  f  urder.  And 
old  Ezry  kindo'  tuk  pity  on  the  feller;  and  havin'  house- 
room  to  spare,  and  railly  in  need  of  a  good  hand  at  the 
mill,  he  said  all  right;  and  so  the  feller  stopped  and  the 
wagon  druv  ahead  and  left  'em;  and  they  didn't  have  no 
things  ner  nothin'— not  even  a  cyarpet-satchel,  ner  a 
stitch  o'  clothes,  on'y  what  they  had  on  their  backs. 
And  I  think  it  was  the  third  er  fourth  day  after  Bills 
stopped  'at  he  whirped  Tomps  Burk,  the  bully  o'  here 
them  days,  tel  you  wouldn't  a-knowed  him! 

136 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

Well,  I'd  heerd  o'  this,  and  the  facts  is  I'd  made  up  my 
mind  'at  Bills  was  a  bad  stick,  and  the  place  wasn't  none 
the  better  fer  his  bein'  here.  But,  as  I  was  a-goin'  on 
to  say,— as  Steve  and  me  driv  up  to  the  mill,  I  ketched 
sight  o'  Bills  the  first  thing,  a-lookin'  out  o'  where  some 
boards  was  knocked  off,  jist  over  the  worter-wheel;  and 
he  knowed  Steve— I  could  see  that  by  his  face;  and  he 
hollered  somepin',  too,  but  what  it  was  I  couldn't  jist 
make  out,  fer  the  noise  o'  the  wheel;  but  he  looked  to 
me  as  ef  he'd  hollered  somepin'  mean  a-purpose  so's  Steve 
wouldn't  hear  it,  and  he'd  have  the  consolation  o'  knowin' 
'at  he'd  called  Steve  some  ornry  name  'thout  givin'  him  a 
chance  to  take  it  up.  Steve  was  allus  quiet-like,  but  ef 
you  raised  his  dander  onc't— and  you  could  do  that  'thout 
much  trouble,  callin'  him  names  er  somepin',  particular' 
anything  'bout  his  mother.  Steve  loved  his  mother— 
allus  loved  his  mother,  and  would  fight  fer  her  at  the 
drap  o'  the  hat.  And  he  was  her  favo-nfe— allus  a-talk- 
in'  o'  "  her  boy,  Steven,"  as  she  used  to  call  him,  and 
so  proud  of  him,  and  so  keerful  of  him  allus,  when 
he'd  be  sick  or  anything;  nuss  him  like  a  baby,  she 
would. 

So  when  Bills  hollered,  Steve  didn't  pay  no  attention; 
and  I  said  nothin',  o'  course,  and  didn't  let  on  like  I  no 
ticed  him.  So  we  druv  round  to  the  south  side  and 

137 


AN   OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

hitched;  and  Steve  'lowed  he'd  better  feed;  so  I  left  him 
with  the  bosses  and  went  into  the  mill. 

They  was  jist  a-stoppin'  fer  dinner.  Most  of  'em 
brought  ther  dinners— lived  so  fur  away,  you  know.  The 
two  Smith  boys  lived  on  what  used  to  be  the  old  Warrick 
farm,  five  er  six  mile'd,  anyhow,  from  where  the  mill  stood. 
Great  stout  fellers,  they  was;  and  little  Jake,  the  father 
of  'em,  wasn't  no  man  at  all— not  much  bigger'n  you,  I 
rickon.  Le'  me  see,  now:— There  was  Tomps  Burk,  Wade 
Elwood,  and  Joe  and  Ben  Carter;  and  Wesley  Morris,  John 
Coke— wiry  little  cuss,  he  was,  afore  he  got  his  leg  sawed 
off ;— and  Ezry,  and— Well,  I  don't  jist  mind  all  the  boys 
— 's  a  long  time  ago,  and  I  never  was  much  of  a  hand  fer 
names.— Now,  some  folks'll  hear  a  name  and  never  fergit 
it,  but  I  can't  boast  of  a  good  rickollection,  'specially  o' 
names;  and  fer  the  last  thirty  year  my  mem'ry's  be'n 
a-failin'  me,  ever  sence  a  spell  o'  fever  'at  I  brought  on 
onc't— fever  and  rheumatiz  together:— You  see,  I  went 
a-sainin'  with  a  passel  o'  the  boys,  fool-like,  and  let  my 
clothes  freeze  on  me  a-comin'  home.  W'y,  my  breeches 
was  ^like  stove-pipes  when  I  pulled  'em  off.  'LI,  ef  I 
didn't  pay  fer  that  spree!  Rheumatiz  got  a  holt  o'  me 
and  helt  me  there  flat  o'  my  back  fer  eight  weeks,  and 
couldn't  move  hand  er  foot  'thout  a-hollerin'  like  a'  Injun. 
And  I'd  a-be'n  there  yit,  I  rickon,  ef  it  hadn't  a-be'n  fer 

138 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

a'  old  boss-doctor,  name  o'  Jones;  and  he  gits  a  lot  o'  sod 
and  steeps  it  in  hot  whiskey  and  pops  it  on  me,— and  Fll- 
be-switched-to-death  ef  it  didn't  cuore  me  up,  fer  all  I 
laughed  and  told  him  I'd  better  take  the  whiskey  in'ardly 
and  let  him  keep  the  grass  fer  his  doctor  bill.  But  that's 
nuther  here  ner  there!— As  I  was  a-sayin'  'bout  the  mill: 
As  I  went  in,  the  boys  had  stopped  work  and  was  a-gittin' 
down  their  dinners,  and  Bills  amongst  'em,  and  old  Ezry 
a-chattin'  away— great  hand,  he  was,  fer  his  joke,  and 
allus  a-cuttin'  up  and  a-gittin'  off  his  odd-come-shorts  on 
the  boys.  And  that  day  he  was  in  particular  good  humor. 
He'd  brought  some  liquor  down  fer  the  boys,  and  he'd 
be'n  drinkin*  a  little  hisse'f,  enough  to  feel  it.  He  didn't 
drink  much— that  is  to  say,  he  didn't  git  drunk  adzactly; 
but  he  tuk  his  dram,  you  understand.  You  see,  they 
made  their  own  whiskey  in  them  days,  and  it  wasn't  noth- 
in'  like  the  bilin'  stuff  you  git  now.  Old  Ezry  had  a  little 
still,  and  allus  made  his  own  whiskey,  enough  fer  fambly 
use,  and  jist  as  puore  as  worter,  and  as  harmless.  But 
now-a-days  the  liquor  you  git's  rank  pizen.  They  say 
they  putt  tobacker  in  it,  and  strychnine,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what;  ner  I  never  knowed  why,  'less  it  was  to  give 
it  a  richer-lookin'  flavor,  like.  Well,  Ezry  he'd  brought 
up  a  jug,  and  the  boys  had  be'n  a-takin'  it  purty  free;  I 
seed  that  as  quick  as  I  went  in.  And  old  Ezry  called  out 

139 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

to  me  to  come  and  take  some,  the  first  thing.  Told  him 
I  didn't  b'lieve  I  keered  about  it;  but  nothin'  would  do  but 
I  must  take  a  drink  with  the  boys;  and  I  was  tired  any 
how  and  I  thought  a  little  wouldn't  hurt;  so  I  takes  a 
swig;  and  as  I  set  the  jug  down  Bills  spoke  up  and  says, 
"  You're  a  stranger  to  me,  and  I'm  a  stranger  to  you,  but 
I  rickon  we  can  drink  to  our  better  acquaintance,"— er 
somepin'  to  that  amount,  and  poured  out  another  snifter 
in  a  gourd  he'd  be'n  a-drinkin'  coif  ee  in,  and  handed  it  to 
me.  Well,  I  couldn't  well  refuse,  of  course;  so  I  says 
"  Here's  to  us,"  and  drunk  her  down— mighty  nigh  a  half 
pint,  I  rickon.  Now,  I  railly  didn't  want  it,  but,  as  I  tell 
you,  I  was  obleeged  to  take  it,  and  I  downed  her  at  a 
swaller  and  never  batted  an  eye,  fer,  to  tell  the  fact 
about  it,  I  liked  the  taste  o'  liquor;  and  I  do  yit,  on'y  I 
know  when  F  got  enough.  Jist  then  I  didn't  want  to 
drink  on  account  o'  Steve.  Steve  couldn't  abide  liquor 
in  no  shape  ner  form— fer  medicine  ner  nothin',  and  I've 
allus  thought  it  was  his  mother's  doin's. 

Now,  a  few  months  afore  this  I'd  be'n  to  Vincennes, 
and  I  was  jist  a-tellin'  Ezry  what  they  was  a-astin'  fer 
their  liquor  there— fer  I'd  fetched  a  couple  o'  gallon  home 
with  me  'at  I'd  paid  six  bits  fer,  and  pore  liquor  at  that: 
And  I  was  a-tellin'  about  it,  and  old  Ezry  was  a-sayin' 
what  an  oudacious  figger  that  was,  and  how  he  could 

140 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

make  money  a-sellin'  it  fer  half  that  price,  and  wat, 
a-goin'  on  a-braggin'  about  his  liquor— and  it  was  a  good 
article— fer  new  whiskey,— and  jist  then  Steve  comes  in, 
jist  as  Bills  was  a-sayin'  'at  a  man  'at  wouldn't  drink  that 
whiskey  wasn't  no  man  at  all!  So,  of  course,  when  they 
ast  Steve  to  take  some  and  he  told  'em  no,  'at  he  was 
much  obleeged,  Bills  was  kindo'  tuk  down,  you  under 
stand,  and  had  to  say  somepin';  and  says  he,  "I  reckon 
you  ain't  no  better'n  the  rest  of  us,  and  wefve  be'n 
a-drinkin'  of  it."  But  Steve  didn't  let  on  like  he  noticed 
Bills  at  all,  and  retch  and  shuk  hands  with  the  other 
boys  and  ast  how  they  was  all  a-comin'  on. 

I  seed  Bills  was  riled,  and  more'n  likely  wanted  trou 
ble;  and  shore  enough,  he  went  on  to  say,  kindo'  snarlin'- 
like,  'at  "  he'd  knowed  o'  men  in  his  day  'at  had  be'n 
licked  fer  refusin'  to  drink  when  their  betters  ast  'em"; 
and  said  furder  'at  "  a  lickin'  wasn't  none  too  good  fer 
anybody  'at  would  refuse  liquor  like  that  o'  Ezr^s,  and 
in  his  own  house  too"— er  buildin',  ruther.  Ezry  shuk 
his  head  at  him,  but  I  seed  'at  Bills  was  bound  fer  a 
quarrel,  and  I  winks  at  Steve,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't 
you  let  him  bully  you;  you'll  find  your  brother  here  to 
see  you  have  fair  play!"  I  was  a-feelin'  my  oats  some 
about  then,  and  Steve  seed  I  was,  and  looked  so  sorry- 
like,  and  like  his  mother,  'at  I  jist  thought,  "  I  kin  fight 

141 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

fer  you,  and  die  fer  you,  'cause  you're  wuth  it!"— And  I 
didn't  someway  feel  like  it  would  amount  to  much  ef  I 
did  die  er  git  killed  er  somepin'  on  his  account.  I  seed 
Steve  was  mighty  white  around  the  mouth,  and  his  eyes 
was  a-glitterin'  like  a  snake's;  yit  Bills  didn't  seem  to 
take  warnin',  but  went  on  to  say  'at  "  he'd  knowed  boys 
'at  loved  their  mothers  so  well  they  couldn't  drink  noth- 
in'  stronger'n  milk."— And  then  you'd  ort  o'  seed  Steve's 
coat  fly  off,  jist  like  it  wanted  to  git  out  of  his  way  and 
give  the  boy  room  accordin'  to  his  stren'th.  I  seed  Bills 
grab  a  piece  o'  scantlin'  jist  in  time  to  ketch  his  arm  as 
he  struck  at  Steve,— fer  Steve  was  a-comin'  fer  him 
dangerss.  But  they'd  ketched  Steve  from  behind  jist 
then;  and  Bills  turned  fer  me.  I  seed  him  draw  back, 
and  I  seed  Steve  a-scufflin'  to  ketch  his  arm;  but  he 
didn't  reach  it  quite  in  time  to  do  me  no  good.  It  must 
a-come  awful  suddent.  The  first  I  rickollect  was  a  roarin' 
and  a  buzzin'  in  my  ears,  and  when  I  kindo'  come  a  little 
better  to,  and  crawled  up  and  peeked  over  the  saw-log  I 
was  a-layin'  the  other  side  of,  I  seed  a  couple  clinched 
and  a-rollin'  over  and  over  and  a-makin'  the  chips  and 
saw-dust  fly,  now  I  tell  you!  Bills  and  Steve  it  was— 
head  and  tail,  tooth  and  toe-nail,  and  a-bleedin'  like  good 
fellers!  I  seed  a  gash  o'  some  kind  in  Bills's  head,  and 
Steve  was  purty  well  tuckered  and  a-pantin'  like  a  lizard; 

142 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

and  I  made  a  rush  in,  and  one  o'  the  Carter  boys  grabbed 
me  and  told  me  to  jist  keep  cool— 'at  Steve  didn't  need  no 
he'p,  and  they  might  need  me  to  keep  Bills's  friends  off 
ef  they  made  a  rush.  By  this  time  Steve  had  whirlt 
Bills,  and  was  a-jist  a-gittin'  in  a  fair  way  to  finish  him 
up  in  good  style,  when  Wesley  Morris  run  in— I  seed 
him  do  it— run  in,  and  afore  we  could  ketch  him  he 
struck  Steve  a  deadener  in  the  butt  o'  the  ear  and  knocked 
him  as  limber  as  a  rag.  And  then  Bills  whirlt  Steve  and 
got  him  by  the  th'oat,  and  Ben  Carter  and  me  and  old 
Ezry  closed  in.— Carter  tackled  Morris,  and  Ezry  and  me 
grabs  Bills— and  as  old  Ezry  grabbed  him  to  pull  him 
off,  Bills  kindo'  give  him  a  side  swipe  o'  some  kind  and 
knocked  him— I  don't  know  how  fur!  And  jist  then 
Carter  and  Morris  come  a-scufflin'  back'ards  right  amongst 
us,  and  Carter  th'owed  him  right  acrost  Bills  and  Steve. 
Well,  it  ain't  fair,  and  I  don't  like  to  tell  it,  but  I  seed  it 
was  the  last  chance  and  I  tuk  advantage  of  it:— As 
Wesley  and  Ben  fell  it  pulled  Bills  down  in  a  kindo' 
twist,  don't  you  understand,  so's  he  couldn't  he'p  hisse'f, 
yit  still  a-clinchin'  Steve  by  the  th'oat,  and  him  black  in 
the  face.— Well,  as  they  fell  I  grabbed  up  a  little  hick'ry 
limb,  not  bigger'n  my  two  thumbs,  and  I  struck  Bills  a 
little  tap  kindo'  over  the  back  of  his  head  like,  and, 
blame  me!  ef  he  didn't  keel  over  like  a  stuck  pig— antf 

143 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

not  any  too  soon,  nuther,— fer  he  had  Steve's  chunk  as 
nigh  putt  out  as  you  ever  seed  a  man's,  to  come  to  agin. 
But  he  was  up  th'reckly  and  ready  to  a-went  at  it  ef  Bills 
could  a-come  to  the  scratch;  but  Mister  Bills  he  wasn't 
in  no  fix  to  try  it  over!  After  a-waitin'  a  while  fer  him 
to  come  to,  and  him  not  a-comin'  to,  we  concluded  'at 
we'd  better  he'p  him,  maybe.  And  we  worked  with  him, 
and  warshed  him,  and  drenched  him  with  whiskey,  but  it 
'peared  like  it  wasn't  no  use.— He  jist  laid  there  with  his 
eyes  about  half  shet,  and  a-breathin'  like  a  hoss  when  he's 
bad  sceart;  and  I'll  be  dad-limbed  ef  I  don't  believe  he'd 
a-died  on  our  hands  ef  it  hadn't  a-happened  old  Doc  Zions 
come  a-ridin'  past  on  his  way  home  from  the  Murdock 
neighborhood,  where  they  was  a-havin'  sich  a  time  with 
the  milk-sick.  And  he  examined  Bills,  and  had  him  laid 
on  a  plank  and  carried  down  to  the  house— 'bout  a  mil'd, 
I  reckon,  from  the  mill.  Looked  kindo'  cur'ous  to  see 
Steve  a-he'ppin'  pack  the  feller,  after  his  nearly  chokin' 
him  to  death.  Oh,  it  was  a  bloody  fight,  I  tell  you! 
Wy,  they  wasn't  a  man  in  the  mill  'at  didn't  have  a 
black  eye  er  somepin';  and  old  Ezry,  where  Bills  hit  him, 
had  his  nose  broke,  and  was  as  bloody  as  a  butcher.  And 
you'd  ort  a-seed  the  women-folks  when  our  p'session  come 
a-bringin'  Bills  in.  I  never  seed  anybody  take  on  like 
Bills's  woman.— It  was  distressin';  it  was,  indeed.— Went 

144 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

into  hysterics,  she  did;  and  we  thought  fer  a  while  she'd 
gone  plum  crazy,  fer  she  cried  so  pitiful  over  him,  and 
called  him  "Charley!  Charley!"  'stid  of  his  right  name, 
and  went  on,  clean  out  of  her  head,  tel  she  finally  jist 
fainted  clean  away. 

Fer  three  weeks  Bills  laid  betwixt  life  and  death,  and 
that  woman  set  by  him  night  and  day,  and  tended  him 
as  patient  as  a'  angel— and  she  was  a'  angel,  too;  and 
he'd  a-never  lived  to  bother  nobody  agin  ef  it  hadn't 
a-be'n  fer  Annie,  as  he  called  her.  Zions  said  there  was 
a  'brazure  of  the— some  kind  o'  p'tuber'nce,  and  ef  he'd 
a-be'n  struck  jist  a  quarter  of  a'  inch  below— jist  a  quar 
ter  of  a'  inch— he'd  a-be'n  a  dead  man.  And  I've  sence 
wished— not  'at  I  want  the  life  of  a  human  bein'  to  ac 
count  fer— on'y,— well,  no  odds— I've  sence  wished  'at  I 
had  a-hit  him  jist  a  quarter  of  a'  inch  below! 

Well,  of  course,  them  days  they  wasn't  no  law  o*  no 
account,  and  nothin'  was  ever  done  about  it.  So  Steve 
and  me  got  our  grindin',  and  talked  the  matter  over  with 
Ezry  and  the  boys.  Ezry  said  he  was  a-goin'  to  do  all  he 
could  fer  Bills,  'cause  he  was  a  good  hand,  and  when  he 
wasn't  drinkin'  they  wasn't  no  peaceabler  man  in  the 
Settlement.  I  kindo'  suspicioned  what  was  up,  but  I 
said  nothin'  then.  And  Ezry  said  furder,  as  we  was 
about  drivin'  off,  that  Bills  was  a  despert  feller,  and  it 

145 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

was  best  to  kindo'  humor  him  a  little.  "  And  you  must 
kindo'  be  on  your  guard,"  he  says,  "  and  I'll  watch  him, 
and  ef  anything  happens  'at  I  git  wind  of  I'll  let  you 
know,"  he  says;  and  so  we  putt  out  fer  home. 

Mother  tuk  on  awful  about  it.  You  see,  she  thought 
she'd  be'n  the  whole  blame  of  it,  'cause  the  Sundy  afore 
that  her  and  Steve  had  went  to  meetin',  and  they  got 
there  late,  and  the  house  was  crowded,  and  Steve  had 
ast  Bills  to  give  up  his  seat  to  Mother,  and  he  wouldn't 
do  it,  and  said  somepin'  'at  disturbed  the  prayin',  and  the 
preacher  prayed  'at  the  feller  'at  was  a-makin'  the  dis 
turbance  might  be  forgive';  and  that  riled  Bills  so  he  got 
up  and  left,  and  hung  around  till  it  broke  up,  so's  he 
could  git  a  chance  at  Steve  to  pick  a  fight.  And  he  did 
try  it,  and  dared  Steve  and  double-dared  him  fer  a  fight, 
but  Mother  begged  so  hard  'at  she  kep'  him  out  of  it. 
Steve  said  'at  he'd  a-told  me  all  about  it  on  the  way  to 
Ezry's,  on'y  he'd  promised  Mother,  you  know,  not  to  say 
nothin'  to  me. 

Ezry  was  over  at  our  house  about  six  weeks  after  the 
fight,  appearantly  as  happy  as  you  please.  We  ast  him 
how  him  and  Bills  was  a-makin'  it,  and  he  said  firstrate; 
said  'at  Bills  was  jist  a-doin'  splendid;  said  he'd  got 
moved  in  his  new  house  'at  he'd  fixed  up  fer  him,  and 

146 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

everything  was  a-goin'  on  as  smooth  as  could  be;  and  Bills 
and  the  boys  was  on  better  terms'n  ever;  and  says  he, 
"  As  fur  as  you  and  Steve's  concerned,  Bills  don't  'pear 
to  bear  you  no  ill  feelin's,  and  says  as  fur  as  he's  con 
cerned  the  thing's  settled."  "  Well,"  says  I,  "  Ezry,  I 
hope  so;  but  I  can't  he'p  but  think  they's  somepin'  at  the 
bottom  of  all  this";  and  says  I,  "I  don't  think  it's  in 
Bills  to  ever  amount  to  anything  good  ";  and  says  I,  "  It's 
my  opinion  they's  a  dog  in  the  well,  and  now  you  mark 
it!" 

Well,  he  said  he  wasn't  jist  easy,  but  maybe  he'd  come 
out  all  right;  said  he  couldn't  turn  the  feller  off— he 
hadn't  the  heart  to  do  that,  with  that-air  pore,  dilicate 
woman  o'  his,  and  the  baby.  And  then  he  went  on  to 
tell  what  a  smart  sorto'  woman  Bills's  wife  was,— one 
of  the  nicest  little  women  he'd  ever  laid  eyes  on,  said  she 
was;  said  she  was  the  kindest  thing,  and  the  sweetest- 
tempered,  and  all— and  the  handiest  woman  'bout  the 
house,  and  'bout  sewin',  and  cookin',  and  the  like,  and  all 
kinds  o'  housework;  and  so  good  to  the  childern,  and  all; 
and  how  they  all  got  along  so  well;  and  how  proud  she 
was  of  her  baby,  and  allus  a-goin'  on  about  it  and  a-cry- 
in'  over  it  and  a-carryin'  on,  and  wouldn't  leave  it  out  of 
her  sight  a  minute.  And  Ezry  said  'at  she  could  write 
so  purty,  and  made  sich  purty  pictur's  fer  the  childern; 

147 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

and  how  they  all  liked  her  better'n  their  own  mother. 
And,  sence  she'd  moved,  he  said  it  seemed  so  lonesome- 
like  'thout  her  about  the  house— like  they'd  lost  one  o' 
their  own  fambly;  said  they  didn't  git  to  see  her  much 
now,  on'y  sometimes,  when  her  man  would  be  at  work, 
she'd  run  over  fer  a  while,  and  kiss  all  the  childern  and 
women-folks  about  the  place,— the  greatest  hand  fer  the 
childern,  she  was;  tell  'em  all  sorts  o'  little  stories,  you 
know,  and  sing  fer  'em;  said  'at  she  could  sing  so  sweet- 
like,  'at  time  and  time  agin  she'd  break  clean  down  in 
some  song  o'  nother,  and  her  voice  would  trimble  so 
mournful-like  'at  you'd  find  yourse'f  a-cryin'  afore  you 
knowed  it.  And  she  used  to  coax  Ezry's  woman  to  let 
her  take  the  childern  home  with  her;  and  they  used  to 
allus  want  to  go,  tel  Bills  come  onc't  while  they  was 
there,  and  they  said  he  got  to  jawin'  her  fer  a-makin' 
some  to-do  over  the  baby,  and  swore  at  her  and  tuk  it 
away  from  her  and  whirped  it  fer  cryin',  and  she  cried 
and  told  him  to  whirp  her  and  not  little  Annie,  and  he 
said  that  was  jist  what  he  was  a-doin'.  And  the  childern 
was  allus  afeard  to  go  there  any  more  after  that— 
'feard  he'd  come  home  and  whirp  little  Annie  agin.  Ezry 
said  he  jist  done  that  to  skeer  'em  away— 'cause  he  didn't 
want  a  passel  o'  childern  a-whoopin'  and  a-howlin'  and 
a-trackin'  round  the  house  all  the  time. 

148 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

But,  shore  enough,  Bills,  after  the  fight,  'peared  like 
he'd  settled  down,  and  went  'bout  his  business  so  stiddy- 
like,  and  worked  so  well,  the  neighbors  begin  to  think 
he  was  all  right  after  all,  and  railly  some  got  to  likin' 
him.  But  fer  me,— well,  I  was  a  leetle  slow  to  argy  'at 
the  feller  wasn't  "  a-possumin'."  But  the  next  time  I 
Tvent  over  to  the  mill— and  Steve  went  with  me— old 
Ezry  come  and  met  us,  and  said  'at  Bills  didn't  have  no 
hard  feelin's  ef  we  didn't,  and  'at  he  wanted  us  to  fergive 
him;  said  'at  Bills  wanted  him  to  tell  us  'at  he  was  sorry 
the  way  he'd  acted,  and  wanted  us  to  fergive  him.  Well, 
I  looked  at  Ezry,  and  we  both  looked  at  him,  jist  perfectly 
tuk  back— the  idee  o'  Bills  a-wantin*  anybody  to  fergive 
him!  And  says  I,  "Ezry,  what  in  the  name  o'  common 
sense  do  you  mean?"  And  says  he,  "I  mean  jist  what 
I  say;  Bills  jined  meetin'  last  night  and  had  'em  all 
a-prayin'  fer  him;  and  we  all  had  a  glorious  time"  says 
old  Ezry;  "and  his  woman  was  there  and  jined,  too,  and 
prayed  and  shouted  and  tuk  on  to  beat  all;  and  Bills 
got  up  and  spoke  and  give  in  his  experience,  and  said 
he'd  be'n  a  bad  man,  but,  glory  to  God,  them  times  was 
past  and  gone ;  said  'at  he  wanted  all  of  'em  to  pray  fer 
him,  and  he  wanted  to  prove  faithful,  and  wanted  all 
his  inemies  to  fergive  him;  and  prayed  'at  you  and  Steve 
and  your  folks  would  fergive  him,  and  ever'body  'at  he 

149 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

ever  wronged  anyway."  And  old  Ezry  was  a-goin'  on, 
and  his  eyes  a-sparklin',  and  a-rubbin'  his  hands,  he  was 
so  excited  and  tickled  over  it,  'at  Steve  and  me  we  jist 
stood  there  a-gawkin'  like,  tel  Bills  hisse'f  come  up  and 
retch  out  one  hand  to  Steve  and  one  to  me;  and  Steve 
shuk  with  him  kindo'  oneasy-like,  and  I— well,  sir,  I 
never  felt  cur'oser  in  my  born  days  than  I  did  that  min 
ute.  The  cold  chills  crep'  over  me,  and  I  shuk  as  ef  I 
had  the  agur,  and  I  folded  my  hands  behind  me  and  I 
looked  that  feller  square  in  the  eye,  and  I  tried  to  speak 
three  or  four  times  afore  I  could  make  it,  and  when  I 
did,  my  voice  wasn't  natchurl— sounded  like  a  feller 
a-whisperin'  through  a  tin  horn  er  somepin'.— And  I  says, 
says  I,  "  You're  a  liar,"  slow  and  delibert.  That  was  all. 
His  eyes  blazed  a  minute,  and  drapped;  and  he  turned, 
'thout  a  word,  and  walked  off.  And  Ezry  says,  "  He's  in 
airnest;  I  know  he's  in  airnest,  er  he'd  a-never  a-tuk 
that!"  And  so  he  went  on,  tel  finally  Steve  jined  in, 
and  betwixt  'em  they  p'suaded  me  'at  I  was  in  the  wrong 
and  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  make  it  all  up,  which  I 
finally  did.  And  Bills  said  'at  he'd  a-never  a-felt  jist 
right  'thout  my  friendship,  f er  he'd  wronged  me,  he  said, 
and  he'd  wronged  Steve  and  Mother,  too,  and  he  wanted 
a  chance,  he  said,  o'  makin'  things  straight  agin. 
Well,  a-goin'  home,  I  don't  think  Steve  and  me  talked  (f 
150 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

nothin'else  but  Bills— how  airnest  the  feller  acted 'bout  it, 
and  how,  ef  he  wasn't  in  airnest,  he'd  a-never  a-swallered 
that  "  lie,"  you  see.  That's  what  walked  my  log,  fer  he 
could  a-jist  as  easy  a-knocked  me  higher'n  Kilgore's  kite 
as  he  could  to  walk  away  'thout  a-doin'  of  it. 

Mother  was  awful  tickled  when  she  heerd  about  it,  fer 
she'd  had  an  idee  'at  we'd  have  trouble  afore  we  got 
back,  and  a-gitten  home  safe,  and  a-bringin'  the  news 
'bout  Bills  a-jinin'  church  and  all,  tickled  her  so  'at  she 
mighty  nigh  shouted  fer  joy.  You  see,  Mother  was  a' 
old  church-member  all  her  life;  and  I  don't  think  she 
ever  missed  a  sermont  er  a  prayer-meetin'  'at  she  could 
possibly  git  to— rain  er  shine,  wet  er  dry.  When  they 
was  a  meetin'  of  any  kind  a-goin'  on,  go  she  would,  and 
nothin'  shoit  o'  sickness  in  the  fambly,  er  knowin*  noth- 
in'  of  it,  would  stop  her!  And  clean  up  to  her  dyin*  day 
she  was  a  God-fearin*  and  consistent  Christian  ef  they 
ever  was  one.  I  mind  now  when  she  was  tuk  with  her 
last  spell  and  laid  bedfast  fer  eighteen  months,  she  used 
to  tell  the  preacher,  when  he'd  come  to  see  her  and  pray 
and  go  on,  'at  she  could  die  happy  ef  she  could  on'y  be 
with  'em  all  agin  in  their  love-feasts  and  revivals.  She 
was  purty  low  then,  and  had  be'n  a-failin'  fast  fer  a  dav 
er  two;  and  that  day  they'd  be'n  a-holdin'  service  at  the 
house.  It  was  her  request,  you  know,  and  the  neighbor? 

151 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

had  congergated  and  was  a-prayin'  and  a-singin'  her 
favorite  hymns— one  in  p'tickler,  "  God  moves  in  a  mys- 
ter'ous  way  his  wunders  to  p'form,"  and  'bout  his  "  Walk- 
in'  on  the  sea  and  a-ridin'  of  the  storm."— Well,  anyway, 
they'd  be'n  a-singin'  that  hymn  fer  her— she  used  to  sing 
that'n  so  much,  I  rickollect  as  fur  back  as  I  kin  remem 
ber;  and  I  mind  how  it  used  to  make  me  feel  so  lonesome- 
like  and  solemn,  don't  you  know,— when  I'd  be  a-knockin' 
round  the  place  along  o'  evenings,  and  she'd  be  a-milkin', 
and  I'd  hear  her,  at  my  feedin',  way  off  by  myse'f,  and  it 
allus  somehow  made  me  feel  like  a  feller'd  ort  'o  try  and 
live  as  nigh  right  as  the  law  allows,  and  that's  about  my 
doctern  yit.  Well,  as  I  was  a-goin'  on  to  say,  they'd  jist 
finished  that  old  hymn,  and  Granny  Lowry  was  jist  a-goin' 
to  lead  in  prayer,  when  I  noticed  Mother  kindo'  tried  to 
turn  herse'f  in  bed,  and  smiled  so  weak  and  faint-like, 
and  looked  at  me,  with  her  lips  a-kindo'  movin';  and  I 
thought  maybe  she  wanted  another  dos't  of  her  syrup 
'at  Ezry's  woman  had  fixed  up  fer  her,  and  I  kindo' 
stooped  down  over  her  and  ast  her  ef  she  wanted  any 
thing.  "Yes,"  she  says,  and  nodded,  and  her  voice 
sounded  so  low  and  solemn  and  so  fur-away-like  'at  I 
knowed  she'd  never  take  no  more  medicine  on  this  airth. 
And  I  tried  to  ast  her  what  it  was  she  wanted,  but  I 
couldn't  say  no  thin';  my  throat  hurt  me,  and  I  felt  the 

152 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

warm  tears  a-boolgin'  up,  and  her  kind  old  face  a-glim- 
merin'  away  so  pale-like  afore  my  eyes,  and  still  a-smilin' 
up  so  lovin'  and  forgivin'  and  so  good  'at  it  made  me 
think  so  fur  back  in  the  past  I  seemed  to  be  a  little  boy 
agin;  and  seemed  like  her  thin  gray  hair  was  brown  and 
a-shinin'  in  the  sun  as  it  used  to  do  when  she  helt  me  on 
her  shoulder  in  the  open  door,  when  Father  was  a-livin' 
and  we  used  to  go  to  meet  him  at  the  bars;  seemed  like 
her  face  was  young  agin,  and  a-smilin'  like  it  allus  used 
to  be,  and  her  eyes  as  full  o'  hope  and  happiness  as  afore 
they  ever  looked  on  grief  er  ever  shed  a  tear.  And  I 
thought  of  all  the  trouble  they  had  saw  on  my  account, 
and  of  all  the  lovin'  words  her  lips  had  said,  and  of  all 
the  thousand  things  her  pore  old  hands  had  done  fer  me 
'at  I  never  even  thanked  her  fer;  and  how  I  loved  her 
better'n  all  the  world  besides,  and  would  be  so  lonesome 
ef  she  went  away.— Lord!  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  didn't 
think  and  feel  and  see.  And  I  knelt  down  by  her,  and  she 
whispered  then  fer  Steven,  and  he  come,  and  we  kissed  her 
—and  she  died— a-smilin'  like  a  child— jist  like  a  child. 
Well— well!  Tears  like  I'm  allus  a-runnin'  into  some- 
pin'  else.  I  wisht  I  could  tell  a  story  'thout  driftin'  off 
in  matters  'at  hain't  no  livin'  thing  to  do  with  what  I 
started  out  with.  I  try  to  keep  from  thinkin*  of  afflic 
tions  and  the  like,  'cause  sich  is  bound  to  come  to  the 

153 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

best  of  us;  but  a  feller's  rickollection  will  bring  'em  up, 
and  I  reckon  it'd  ort'o  be  er  it  wouldn't  be;  and  I've 
thought,  sometimes,  it  was  done  maybe  to  kindo'  ad 
monish  a  feller,  as  the  Good  Book  says,  of  how  good  a 
world'd  be  'thout  no  sorrow  in  it. 

Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  rickollect ; — about  Bills  a-jinin' 
church.  Well,  sir,  they  wasn't  a  better-actin'  feller  and 
more  religious-like  in  all  the  neighberhood.  Spoke  in 
meetin's,  he  did,  and  tuk  a'  active  part  in  all  religious 
doin's,  and,  in  fact,  was  jist  as  square  a  man,  appear- 
antly,  as  the  preacher  hisse'f.  And  about  six  er  eight 
weeks  after  he'd  jined,  they  got  up  another  revival,  and 
things  run  high.  They  was  a  big  excitement,  and  ever'- 
body  was  a'tendin'  from  fur  and  near.  Bills  and  Ezry 
got  the  mill-hands  to  go,  and  didn't  talk  o'  nothin'  but 
religion.  People  thought  awhile  'at  old  Ezry'd  turn 
preacher,  he  got  so  interested  'bout  church  matters.  He 
was  easy  excited  'bout  anything;  and  when  he  went  into 
a  thing  it  was  in  dead  airnest,  shore!— "jist  flew  off  the 
handle,"  as  I  heerd  a  comical  feller  git  off  onc't.  And 
him  and  Bills  was  up  and  at  it  ever'  night— prayin'  and 
shoutin'  at  the  top  o'  their  voice.  Them  railly  did  seem 
like  good  times— when  ever'body  jined  together,  and 
prayed  and  shouted  ho-sanner,  and  danced  around  to 
gether,  and  hugged  each  other  like  they  was  so  full  o1 

154 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

glory  they  jist  couldn't  he'p  theirse'v's!— That's  the  reason 
7  jined;  it  looked  so  kindo'  whole-souled-like  and  good, 
you  understand.  But  law!  I  didn't  hold  out— on'y  fer  a 
little  while,  and  no  wunder! 

Well,  about  them  times  Bills  was  tuk  down  with  the 
agur;  first  got  to  chillin'  ever'-other-day,  then  ever'  day, 
and  harder  and  harder,  tel  sometimes  he'd  be  obleeged 
to  stay  away  from  meetin'  on  account  of  it.  And  onc't 
I  was  at  meetin'  when  he  told  about  it,  and  how  when  he 
couldn't  be  with  'em  he  allus  prayed  at  home,  and  he 
said  'at  he  believed  his  prayers  was  answered,  fer  onc't 
he'd  prayed  fer  a  new  outpourin'  of  the  Holy  Spent,  and 
that  very  night  they  was  three  new  jiners.  And  another 
time  he  said  'at  he'd  prayed  'at  Wesley  Morris  would  jine, 
and  lo  and  behold  you!  he  did  jine,  and  the  very  night 
'at  he  prayed  he  would. 

Well,  the  night  I'm  a-speakin'  of  he'd  had  a  chill  the 
day  afore  and  couldn't  go  that  night,  and  was  in  bed 
when  Ezry  druv  past  fer  him;  said  he'd  like  to  go,  but 
had  a  high  fever  and  couldn't.  And  then  Ezry's  woman 
ast  him  ef  he  was  too  sick  to  spare  Annie;  and  he  said 
no,  they  could  take  her  and  the  baby:  and  told  her  to  fix 
his  medicine  so's  he  could  reach  it  'thout  gittin'  out  o' 
bed,  and  he'd  git  along  'thout  her.  And  so  she  tuk  the 
baby  and  went  along  with  Ezry  and  his  folks. 

155 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

I  was  at  meetin'  that  night  and  rickollect  'em  comin' 
in.  Annie  got  a  seat  jist  behind  me— Steve  give  her 
his'n  and  stood  up;  and  I  rickollect  a-astin'  her  how  Bills 
was  a-gittin'  along  with  the  agur;  and  little  Annie,  the 
baby,  kep'  a-pullin'  my  hair  and  a-crowin'  tel  finally  she 
went  to  sleep;  and  Steve  ast  her  mother  to  let  him  hold 
her— cutest  little  thing  you  ever  laid  eyes  on,  and  the 
very  pictur'  of  her  mother. 

Old  Daddy  Barker  preached  that  night,  and  a  mighty 
good  sermont.  His  text,  ef  I  rickollect  right,  was  "  work- 
in'  out  your  own  salvation  ";  and  when  I  listen  to  preach 
ers  nowadays  in  their  big  churches  and  their  fine  pulpits, 
I  allus  think  o'  Daddy  Barker,  and  kindo'  some  way  wisht 
the  old  times  could  come  agin,  with  the  old  log  meetin'- 
house  with  its  puncheon-floor,  and  the  chinkin'  in  the 
walls,  and  old  Daddy  Barker  in  the  pulpit.  He'd  make 
you  feel  'at  the  Lord  could  make  Hisse'f  at  home  there, 
and  find  jist  as  abundant  comfort  in  the  old  log  house  as 
He  could  in  any  of  your  fine-furnished  churches  'at  you 
can't  set  down  in  'thout  payin'  fer  the  privilege,  like  it 
was  a  theatre. 

Ezry  had  his  two  little  girls  jine  that  night,  and  I 
rickollect  the  preacher  made  sich  a  purty  prayer  about 
the  Saviour  a-cotin'  from  the  Bible  'bout  "  Suffer  little 
childern  to  come  unto  Me  " — and  all;  and  talked  so  purty 

156 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

'bout  the  jedgment  day,  and  mothers  a-meetin'  their 
little  ones  there— and  all;  and  went  on  tel  they  wasn't 
a  dry  eye  in  the  house— And  jist  as  he  was  a-windin'  up, 
Abe  Riggers  stuck  his  head  in  at  the  door  and  hollered 
"  Fire ! "  loud  as  he  could  yell.  We  all  rushed  out,  a-think- 
in'  it  was  the  meetin'-house;  but  he  hollered  it  was  the 
mill;  and  shore  enough,  away  off  to  the  south'ards  we 
could  see  the  light  acrost  the  woods,  and  see  the  blaze 
a-lickin'  up  above  the  trees.  I  seed  old  Ezry  as  he  come 
a-scufflin'  through  the  crowd;  and  we  putt  out  together 
f  er  it.  Well,  it  was  two  miPd  to  the  mill,  but  by  the  time 
we'd  half-way  got  there,  we  could  tell  it  wasn't  the  mill 
a-burnin',  'at  the  fire  was  furder  to  the  left,  and  that  was 
Ezry's  house;  and  by  the  time  we  got  there  it  wasn't 
much  use.  We  pitched  into  the  household  goods,  and 
got  out  the  beddin',  and  the  furnitur'  and  cheers,  and 
the  like  o'  that;  saved  the  clock  and  a  bedstid,  and  got 
the  bureau  purt'  nigh  out  when  they  hollered  to  us  'at 
the  roof  was  a-cavin'  in,  and  we  had  to  leave  it;  well, 
we'd  tuk  the  drawers  out,  all  but  the  big  one,  and  that 
was  locked;  and  it  and  all  in  it  went  with  the  buildin'; 
and  that  was  a  big  loss:  All  the  money  'at  Ezry  was 
a-layin'  by  was  in  that-air  drawer,  and  a  lot  o'  keepsakes 
and  trinkets  'at  Ezry's  woman  said  she  wouldn't  a-parted 
with  fer  the  world  and  all. 

157 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

I  never  seed  a  troubleder  fambly  than  they  was.  It 
jist  'peared  like  old  Ezry  give  clean  down,  and  the  women 
and  childern  a-cryin'  and  a-takin'  on.  It  looked  jist 
awful— shore's  you're  born!— Losin'  ever'thing  they'd 
worked  so  hard  fer— and  there  it  was,  purt'  nigh  mid 
night,  and  a  fambly,  jist  a  little  while  ago  all  so  happy, 
and  now  with  no  home  to  go  to,  ner  nothin'! 

It  was  arranged  fer  Ezry's  to  move  in  with  Bills— that 
was  about  the  on'y  chance— on'y  one  room  and  a  loft; 
but  Bills  said  they  could  manage  some  way,  fer  a  while 
anyhow. 

Bills  said  he  seed  the  fire  when  it  first  started,  and 
could  a-putt  it  out  ef  he'd  on'y  be'n  strong  enough  to  git 
there;  said  he  started  twic't  to  go,  but  was  too  weak  and 
had  to  go  back  to  bed  agin;  said  it  was  a-blazin'  in  the 
kitchen  roof  when  he  first  seed  it.  So  the  gineral  con 
clusion  'at  we  all  come  to  was— it  must  a-ketched  from 
the  flue. 

It  was  too  late  in  the  Fall  then  to  think  o'  buildin' 
even  the  onriest  kind  o'  shanty,  and  so  Ezry  moved  in 
with  Bills.  And  Bills  used  to  say  ef  it  hadn't  a-be'n  fer 
Ezry  he'd  a-never  a-had  no  house,  ner  nothin'  to  putt  in 
it,  nuther!  You  see,  all  the  household  goods  'at  Bills 
had  in  the  world  he'd  got  of  Ezry,  and  he  'lowed  he'd  be 

158 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

a  triflin'  whelp  ef  he  didn't  do  all  in  his  power  to  make 
Ezry  perf  eckly  at  home's  long  as  he  wanted  to  stay  there. 
And  together  they  managed  to  make  room  fer  'em  all 
by  a-buildin'  a  kindo'  shed-like  to  the  main  house,  in- 
tendin'  to  build  when  Spring  come.  And  ever'thing 
went  along  first-rate,  I  guess;  never  heerd  no  complaints 
•^that  is,  p'tickler. 

Ezry  was  kindo*  down  fer  a  long  time,  though;  didn't 
like  to  talk  about  his  trouble  much,  and  didn't  'tend 
meetin'  much,  like  he  used  to;  said  it  made  him  think 
'bout  his  house  burnin',  and  he  didn't  feel  safe  to  lose 
sight  o'  the  mill.  And  the  meetin's  kindo'  broke  up 
altogether  that  winter.  Almost  broke  up  religious  doin's, 
it  did.  'S  long  as  I've  lived  here  I  never  seed  jist  sich  a 
slack  in  religion  as  they  was  that  winter;  and  'fore  then, 
I  kin  mind  the  time  when  they  wasn't  a  night  the  whole 
endurin*  winter  when  they  didn't  have  preachin'  er  prayer- 
meetin'  o'  some  kind  a-goin'  on.  Wy,  I  rickollect  one 
night  in  p'tickler— the  coldest  night,  whooh  !  And  some 
body  had  stold  the  meetin'-house  door,  and  they  was 
obleeged  to  preach  'thout  it.  And  the  wind  blowed  in 
so  they  had  to  hold  their  hats  afore  the  candles,  and 
then  onc't-in-a-while  they'd  git  sluffed  out.  And  the 
snow  drifted  in  so  it  was  jist  like  settin'  out  doors;  and 
they  had  to  stand  up  when  they  prayed—yes-sir!  stood 

159 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

up  to  pray.  I  noticed  that  night  they  was  a'  oncommon 
lot  o*  jiners,  and  I  believe  to  this  day  'at  most  of  'em 
jined  jist  to  git  up  where  the  stove  was.  Lots  o'  folks 
had  their  feet  froze  right  in  meetin';  and  Steve  come 
home  with  his  ears  froze  like  they  was  whittled  out  o' 
bone;  and  he  said  'at  Mary  Madaline  Wells's  feet  was 
froze,  and  she  had  two  pair  o'  socks  on  over  her  shoes. 
Oh,  it  was  cold,  now  I  tell  you! 

They  run  the  mill  part  o'  that  winter— part  they 
couldn't.  And  they  didn't  work  to  say  stiddy  tel  along 
in  Aprile,  and  then  they  was  snow  on  the  ground  yit— 
in  the  shadders— and  the  ground  froze,  so  you  couldn't 
hardly  dig  a  grave.  But  at  last  they  got  to  kindo* 
jiggin'  along  agin.  Plenty  to  do  there  was;  and  old  Ezry 
was  mighty  tickled,  too;  'peared  to  recruit  right  up  like. 
Ezry  was  allus  best  tickled  when  things  was  a-stirrin', 
and  then  he  was  a-gittin'  ready  fer  buildin',  you  know,— 
wanted  a  house  of  his  own,  he  said.— And  of  course  it 
wasn't  adzackly  like  home,  all  cluttered  up  as  they  was 
there  at  Bills's.  They  got  along  mighty  well,  though, 
together;  and  the  women-folks  and  childern  got  along 
the  best  in  the  world.  Ezry's  woman  used  to  say  she 
never  laid  eyes  on  jist  sich  another  woman  as  Annie  was. 
Said  it  was  jist  as  good  as  a  winter's  schoolin'  fer  the 
childern;  said  her  two  little  girls  had  learnt  to  read,  and 

160 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORf 

didn't  know  their  a-b  abs  afore  Annie  learnt  'em;  well, 
the  oldest  one,  Mary  Patience,  she  did  know  her  letters, 
I  guess— fourteen  year  old,  she  was;  but  Mandy,  the 
youngest,  had  never  seed  inside  a  book  afore  that  winter; 
and  the  way  she  learnt  was  jist  su'prisin'.  She  was 
puny-like  and  frail-lookin'  allus,  but  ever'body  'lowed  she 
was  a  heap  smarter'n  Mary  Patience,  and  she  was;  and 
in  my  opinion  she  railly  had  more  sense'n  all  the  rest  o' 
the  childern  putt  together,  'bout  books  and  cipherin'  and 
'rethmetic,  and  the  like;  and  John  Wesley,  the  oldest  of 
'em,  he  got  to  teachin'  at  last,  when  he  growed  up,— but, 
law!  he  couldn't  write  his  own  name  so's  you  could  read 
it.  I  allus  thought  they  was  a  good  'eal  of  old  Ezry  in 
John  Wesley.  Liked  to  romance  'round  with  the  young 
sters  'most  too  well.— Spiled  him  fer  teachin',  I  allus 
thought;  fer  instance,  ef  a  scholard  said  somepin'  funny 
in  school,  John-Wes  he'd  jist  have  to  have  his  laugh  out 
with  the  rest,  and  it  was  jist  fun  fer  the  boys,  you  know, 
to  go  to  school  to  him.  Allus  in  fer  spellin'-matches  and 
the  like,  and  learnin*  songs  and  sich.  I  rickollect  he  give 
a'  exhibition  onc't,  one  winter,  and  I'll  never  fergit  it,  I 
rickon. 

The  school-house  would  on'y  hold  'bout  forty,  comf  ta 
ble,  and  that  night  they  was  up'ards  of  a  hunderd  er 
more— jist  crammed  and  jammed!  And  the  benches 

161 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

was  piled  back  so's  to  make  room  f er  the  flatform  they'd 
built  to  make  their  speeches  and  dialogues  on;  and  fellers 
a-settin'  up  on  them  back  seats,  their  heads  was  clean 
aginst  the  j'ist.  It  was  a  low  ceilin',  anyhow,  and  o' 
course  them  'at  tuk  a  part  in  the  doin's  was  way  up,  too. 
Janey  Thompson  had  to  give  up  her  part  in  a  dialogue, 
'cause  she  looked  so  tall  she  was  afeard  the  congergation 
would  laugh  at  her;  and  they  couldn't  git  her  to  come 
out  and  sing  in  the  openin'  song  'thout  lettin'  her  set 
down  first  and  git  ready  'fore  they  pulled  the  curtain. 
You  see,  they  had  sheets  sewed  together,  and  fixed  on  a 
string  some  way,  to  slide  back'ards  and  for'ards,  don't 
you  know.  But  they  was  a  big  bother  to  'em— couldn't 
git  'em  to  work  like.  Ever'  time  they'd  git  'em  slid  'bout 
half-way  acrost,  somepin'  would  ketch,  and  they'd  haf 
to  stop  and  fool  with  'em  awhile  'fore  they  could  git  'em 
the  balance  o'  the  way  acrost.  Well,  finally,  to'rds  the 
last,  they  jist  kep'  'em  drawed  back  all  the  time.  It 
was  a  pore  affair,  and  spiled  purt'  nigh  ever*  piece;  but 
the  scholards  all  wanted  it  fixed  thataway,  the  teacher 
said,  in  a  few  appropert  remarks  he  made  when  the 
thing  was  over.  Well,  I  was  a-settin'  in  the  back  part 
o'  the  house  on  them  high  benches,  and  my  head  was  jist 
even  with  them  on  the  flatform,  and  the  lights  was  pore, 
and  where  the  string  was  stretched  fer  the  curtain  to 

162 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

slide  on  it  looked  like  the  p'formers  was  strung  on  it. 
And  when  Lige  Beyer's  boy  was  a-speakin'— kindo* 
mumbled  it,  you  know,  and  you  couldn't  half  hear— it 
looked  fer  the  world  like  he  was  a-chawin*  on  that-air 
string;  and  some  devilish  feller  'lowed  ef  he'd  chaw  it 
clean  in  two  it'd  be  a  good  thing  fer  the  balance.  After 
that  they  all  sung  a  sleigh-ridin'  song,  and  it  was  right 
purty,  the  way  they  got  it  off.  Had  a  passel  o'  sleigh- 
bells  they'd  ring  ever*  onc't-in-a-while,  and  it  sounded 
purty— shore! 

Then  Hunicut's  girl,  Marindy,  read  a  letter  'bout 
winter,  and  what  fun  the  youngsters  allus  had  in  winter 
time,  a-sleighin'  and  the  like,  and  spellin'-matches,  and 
huskin'-bees,  and  all.  Purty  good,  it  was,  and  made  a 
feller  think  o'  old  times.  Well,  that  was  about  the  best 
thing  they  was  done  that  night;  but  everybody  said  the 
teacher  wrote  it  fer  her;  and  I  wouldn't  be  surprised 
much,  fer  they  was  married  not  long  afterwards.  I  ex 
pect  he  wrote  it  fer  her.— Wouldn't  putt  it  past  Wes! 

They  had  a  dialogue,  too,  'at  was  purty  good.  Little 
Bob  Arnold  was  all  fixed  up— had  on  his  pap's  old  bell- 
crowned  hat,  the  one  he  was  married  in.  Well,  I  jist 
thought  die  I  would  when  I  seed  that  old  hat  and  called 
to  mind  the  night  his  pap  was  married,  and  we  all  got 
him  a  little  how-come-you-so  on  some  left-handed  cider 

163 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

'at  had  be'n  a-layin'  in  a  whiskey-bar'l  tel  it  was  strong 
enough  to  bear  up  a'  egg.  I  kin  rickollect  now  jist  how 
he  looked  in  that  hat,  when  it  was  all  new,  you  know, 
and  a-settin'  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  his  hair  in  his 
eyes;  and  sich  hair!— as  red  as  git-out— and  his  little 
black  eyes  a-shinin'  like  beads.  Well-sir,  you'd  a-died  to 
a-seed  him  a-dancin'.  We  danced  all  night  that  night, 
and  would  a-be'n  a-dancin'  yit,  I  rickon,  ef  the  fiddler 
hadn't  a-give  out.  Wash  Lowry  was  a-fiddlin'  fer  us; 
and  along  to'rds  three  er  four  in  the  morning  Wash  was 
purty  well  fagged  out.  You  see,  Wash  could  never  play 
fer  a  dance  er  nothin'  'thout  a-drinkin'  more  er  less,  and 
when  he  got  to  a  certain  pitch  you  couldn't  git  nothin* 
out  o'  him  but  " Barbary  Allan";  so  at  last  he  struck  up 
on  that,  and  jist  kep'  it  up  and  kep'  it  up,  and  nobody 
couldn't  git  nothin'  else  out  of  him! 

Now,  anybody  'at  ever  danced  knows  'at  "  Barbary 
Allan"  hain't  no  tune  to  dance  by,  no  way  you  can  fix  it; 
and,  o'  course,  the  boys  seed  at  onc't  their  fun  was  gone 
ef  they  couldn't  git  him  on  another  tune.— And  they'd 
coax  and  beg  and  plead  with  him,  and  maybe  git  him 
started  on  "  The  Wind  Blows  over  the  Barley,"  and  'bout 
the  time  they'd  git  to  knockin'  it  down  agin  purty  lively, 
he'd  go  to  sawin'  away  on  "  Barbary  Allan  "—and  I'll-be- 
switched-to-death  ef  that  feller  didn't  set  there  and  play 

164 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

hisse'f  sound  asleep  on  "  Barbary  Allan,"  and  we  had  to 
wake  him  up  afore  he'd  quit!  Now,  that's  jes'  the  plum 
facts.  And  they  wasn't  a  better  fiddler  nowheres  than 
Wash  Lowry,  when  he  was  at  hisse'f.  I've  heerd  a  good 
many  fiddlers  in  my  day,  and  I  never  heerd  one  yit  'at 
could  play  my  style  o'  fiddlin'  ekal  to  Wash  Lowry.  You 
see,  Wash  didn't  play  none  o'  this-here  new-fangled 
music— nothin'  but  the  old  tunes,  you  understand,  "The 
Forked  Deer,"  and  "Old  Fat  Gal,"  and  "Gray  Eagle," 
and  the  like.  Now,  them's  music!  Used  to  like  to  hear 
Wash  play  "Gray  Eagle."  He  could  come  as  nigh 
a-makin'  that  old  tune  talk  as  ever  you  heerd!  Used  to 
think  a  heap  o'  his  fiddle— and  he  had  a  good  one,  shore. 
I've  heerd  him  say,  time  and  time  agin,  'at  a  five-dollar 
gold-piece  wouldn't  buy  it,  and  I  knowed  him  myse'f  to 
refuse  a  calf  fer  it  onc't— yes-sir,  a  yearland  calf— and 
the  feller  offered  him  a  double-bar'l'd  pistol  to  boot,  and 
blame  ef  he'd  take  it;  said  he'd  ruther  part  with  any 
thing  else  he  owned  than  his  fiddle.— But  here  I  am, 
clean  out  o'  the  furry  agin!  .  .  .  Oh,  yes;  I  was  a-tellin' 
'bout  little  Bob,  with  that  old  hat;  and  he  had  on  a 
swaller-tail  coat  and  a  lot  o'  fixin's,  a-actin'  like  he  was 
a  squire;  and  he  had  him  a  great  long  beard  made  out  o' 
corn-silks,  and  you  wouldn't  a-knowed  him  ef  it  wasn't 
fer  his  voice.  Well,  he  was  a-p'tendin'  he  was  a  squire 
.165 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

a-tryin'  some  kind  o'  law-suit,  you  see;  and  John  Weslej 
he  was  the  defendunt,  and  Joney  Wiles,  I  believe  it  was, 
played  like  he  was  the  plaintive.  And  they'd  had  a  fall- 
in'  out  'bout  some  land,  and  was  a-lawin'  fer  p'session,  you 
understand.  Well,  Bob  he  made  out  it  was  a  mighty 
bad  case  when  John-Wes  comes  to  consult  him  'bout  it, 
and  tells  him  ef  a  little  p'int  o'  law  was  left  out  he 
thought  he  could  git  the  land  fer  him.  And  then  John- 
Wes  bribes  him,  you  understand,  to  leave  out  the  p'int 
o'  law,  and  the  squire  says  he'll  do  all  he  kin,  and  so 
John-Wes  goes  out  a-feelin'  purty  good.  Then  Wiks 
comes  in  to  consult  the  squire,  don't  you  see.  And  the 
'squire  tells  him  the  same  tale  he  told  John  Wesley.  So 
Wiles  bribes  him  to  leave  out  the  p'int  o'  law  in  his  favor, 
don't  you  know.  So  when  the  case  is  tried  he  decides 
in  favor  o'  John-Wes,  a-tellin'  Wiles  some  cock-and-bull 
story  'bout  havin'  to  manage  it  thataway  so's  to  git  the 
case  mixed  so's  he  could  git  it  fer  him  shore;  and  posts 
him  to  sue  fer  change  of  venue  er  somepin',— anyway, 
Wiles  gits  a  new  trial,  and  then  the  squire  decides  in 
his  favor,  and  tells  John-Wes  another  trial  will  fix  it  in 
his  favor,  and  so  on.— And  so  it  goes  on  tel,  anyway,  he 
gits  holt  o'  the  land  hisse'f  and  all  their  money  besides, 
and  leaves  them  to  hold  the  bag!  Well-sir,  it  was  purty 
well  got  up;  and  they  said  it  was  John-Wes's  doin's,  and 

166 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

I  'low  it  was — he  was  a  good  hand  at  anything  o*  that 
sort,  and  knowed  how  to  make  fun.— But  I've  be'n  a-tell« 
in'  you  purty  much  ever'thing  but  what  I  started  out 
with,  and  I'll  try  and  hurry  through,  'cause  I  know  you're 
tired. 

'Long  'bout  the  beginnin*  o'  summer,  things  had  got 
back  to  purty  much  the  old  way.  The  boys  round  wa? 
a-gittin'  devilish,  and  o'  nights  'specially  they  was  a 
sight  o'  meanness  a-goin*  on.  The  mill-hands,  most  oi 
'em,  was  mixed  up  in  it— Coke  and  Morris,  and  them  'at 
had  jined  meetin*  'long  in  the  winter  had  all  backslid, 
and  was  a-drinkin*  and  carousin*  round  worse'n  ever. 

People  perdicted  'at  Bills  would  backslide,  but  he  helt 
on  faithful,  to  all  appearance;  said  he  liked  to  see  a 
feller  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  do  right,  he  liked  to 
see  him  do  it,  and  not  go  back  on  his  word;  and  even 
went  so  fur  as  to  tell  Ezry  ef  they  didn't  putt  a  stop  to 
it  he'd  quit  the  neighberhood  and  go  somers  else.  And 
Bills  was  Ezry's  head  man  then,  and  he  couldn't  a-got 
along  'thout  him;  and  I  b'lieve  ef  Bills  had  a-said  the 
word  old  Ezry  would  a-turned  off  ever*  hand  he  had.— H€ 
got  so  he  jist  left  ever'thing  to  Bills.  Ben  Carter  was 
turned  off  fer  somepin',  and  nobody  ever  knowed  what, 
Bills  and  him  had  never  got  along  jist  right  sence  the 
fight. 

167 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

Ben  was  with  this  set  I  was  a-tellin'  you  'bout,  and 
they'd  got  him  to  drinkin*  and  in  trouble,  o'  course.  I'd 
knowed  Ben  well  enough  to  know  he  wouldn't  do  nothin' 
ornry  ef  he  wasn't  agged  on,  and  ef  he  ever  was  mixed 
up  in  anything  o'  the  kind  Wes  Morris  and  John  Coke 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and  I  take  notice  they  wasn't 
turned  off  when  Ben  was. 

One  night  the  crowd  was  out,  and  Ben  amongst  'em, 
o'  course.— Sence  he'd  be'n  turned  off  he'd  be'n  a-drink- 
in',— and  I  never  blamed  him  much;  he  was  so  good- 
hearted  like  and  easy  led  off,  and  I  allus  b'lieved  it  wasn't 
his  own  doin's. 

Well,  this  night  they  cut  up  awful,  and  ef  they  was 
one  fight  they  was  a  dozend;  and  when  all  the  devilment 
was  done  they  could  do,  they  started  on  a  stealin'  expedi 
tion,  and  stold  a  lot  o'  chickens  and  tuk  'em  to  the  mill 
to  roast  'em;  and,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  that  night 
the  mill  burnt  clean  to  the  ground.  And  the  whole  pack 
of  'em  collogued  together  aginst  Carter  to  saddle  it  onto 
him;  claimed  'at  they  left  Ben  there  at  the  mill  'bout 
twelve  o'clock— which  was  a  fact,  fer  he  was  dead  drunk 
and  couldn't  git  away.  Steve  stumbled  over  him  while 
the  mill  was  a-burnin'  and  drug  him  out  afore  he  knowed 
what  was  a-goin'  on,  and  it  was  all  plain  enough  to  Steve 
'at  Ben  didn't  have  no  hand  in  the  firm'  of  it.  But  I'll 

168 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

tell  you  he  sobered  up  mighty  suddent  when  he  seed 
what  was  a-goin'  on,  and  heerd  the  neighbors  a-hollerin', 
and  a-threatenin'  and  a-goin'  on!— fer  it  seemed  to  be 
the  ginerl  idee  'at  the  buildin'  was  fired  a-purpose.  And 
says  Ben  to  Steve,  says  he,  "I  expect  I'll  haf  to  say 
good-bye  to  you,  fer  they've  got  me  in  a  ticklish  place! 
I  kin  see  through  it  all  now,  when  it's  too  late!"  And 
jist  then  Wesley  Morris  hollers  out,  "Where's  Ben 
Carter?  "  and  started  to'rds  where  me  and  Ben  and  Steve 
was  a-standin';  and  Ben  says,  wild-like,  "Don't  you  two 
fellers  ever  think  it  was  my  doin's,"  and  whispers  "  Good 
bye,"  and  started  off;  and  when  we  turned,  Wesley  Morris 
was  a-layin'  flat  of  his  back,  and  we  heerd  Carter  yell  to 
the  crowd  'at  "that  man"— meanin'  Morris— "needed 
lookin'  after  worse  than  he  did,"  and  another  minute  he 
plunged  into  the  river  and  swum  acrost;  and  we  all  stood 
and  watched  him  in  the  flickerin'  light  tel  he  clum  out 
on  t'other  bank;  and  'at  was  the  last  anybody  ever  seed 
o'  Ben  Carter! 

It  must  a-be'n  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  by 
this  time,  and  the  mill  then  was  jist  a-smoulderin'  to 
ashes— fer  it  was  as  dry  as  tinder  and  burnt  like  a  flash 
—and  jist  as  a  party  was  a-talkin'  o'  organizin'  and  fol- 
lerin'  Carter,  we  heerd  a  yell  'at  I'll  never  fergit  ef  I'd 
live  tel  another  flood.  Old  Ezry,  it  was,  as  white  as  a 

169 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

corpse,  and  with  the  blood  a-streamin'  out  of  a  gash  in 
his  forred,  and  his  clothes  half  on,  come  a-rushin'  into 
the  crowd  and  a-hollerin'  fire  and  murder  ever'  jump. 
"  My  house  is  a-burnin',  and  my  folks  is  all  a-bein'  mur 
dered  whilse  you're  a-standin'  here!  And  Bills  done  it! 
Bills  done  it!"  he  hollered,  as  he  headed  the  crowd  and 
started  back  fer -home.  "  Bills  done  it!  I  caught  him  at 
it;  and  he  would  a-murdered  me  in  cold  blood  ef  it 
hadn't  a-be'n  fer  his  woman.  He  knocked  me  down,  and 
had  me  tied  to  a  bed-post  in  the  kitchen  afore  I  come  to. 
And  his  woman  cut  me  loose  and  told  me  to  run  fer  he'p; 
and  says  I,  'Where's  Bills?'  and  she  says,  'He's  after 
me  by  this  time.'  And  jist  then  we  heerd  Bills  holler, 
and  we  looked,  and  he  was  a-standin'  out  in  the  clearin' 
in  front  o'  the  house,  with  little  Annie  in  his  arms;  and 
he  hollered  wouldn't  she  like  to  kiss  the  baby  good-bye. 
And  she  hollered  My  God!  fer  me  to  save  little  Annie, 
and  fainted  clean  dead  away.  And  I  heerd  the  roof 
a-crackin',  and  grabbed  her  up  and  packed  her  out  jist 
in  time.  And  when  I  looked  up,  Bills  hollered  out  agin, 
and  says,  'Ezry,'  he  says,  'you  kin  begin  to  kindo'  git 
an  idee  o'  what  a  good  feller  I  am!  And  ef  you  hadn't 
a-caught  me  you'd  a-never  a-knowed  it,  and  "Brother 
Williams1'  wouldn't  a-be'n  called  away  to  another  ap- 

170 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

p'intment  like  he  is.'  And  says  he, '  Now,  ef  you  f oiler 
me  I'll  finish  you  shore!— You're  safe  now,  fer  I  hain't 
got  time  to  waste  on  you  furder.'  And  jist  then  his 
woman  kindo'  come  to  her  senses  agMn  and  hollered  fer 
little  Annie,  and  the  child  heerd  her  and  helt  out  its 
little  arms  to  go  to  her,  and  hollered  *  Mother!  Mother!' 
And  Bills  says,  'Dam  yer  mother!  ef  it  hadn't  a-be'n 
fer  her  I'd  a-be'n  all  right.  And  dam  you,  too!1  he  says 
to  me.— 'This'll  pay  you  fer  that  lick  you  struck  me; 
and  fer  you  a-startin'  reports,  when  I  first  come,'at  more'n 
likely  I'd  done  somepin'  mean  over  East  and  come  out 
West  to  reform!  And  I  wonder  ef  I  didn't  do  somepin' 
mean  afore  I  come  here?'  he  went  on;  'kill  somebody  er 
somepin'?  And  I  wonder  ef  I  ain't  reformed  enough 
to  go  back?  Good-bye,  Annie!*  he  hollered;  'and  you 
needn't  fret  about  yer  baby,  I'll  be  the  same  indulgent 
father  to  it  I've  allus  be'n!'  And  the  baby  was  a-cryin' 
and  a-reachin*  out  its  little  arms  to'rds  its  mother,  when 
Bills  he  turned  and  struck  off  in  the  dark  to'rds  the  river." 
This  was  about  the  tale  'at  Ezry  told  us,  as  nigh  as  1 
can  rickollect:  and  by  the  time  he  finished,  I  never  want 
to  see  jist  sich  another  crowd  o'  men  as  was  a-swarmin' 
there.  Ain't  it  awful  when  sich  a  crowd  gits  together? 
I  tell  you  it  makes  my  flesh  creep  to  think  about  it! 

171 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

As  Bills  had  gone  in  the  direction  of  the  river,  we 
wasn't  long  in  makin'  our  minds  up  'at  he'd  haf  to  cross 
it,  and  ef  he  done  that  he'd  haf  to  use  the  boat  'at  was 
down  below  the  mill,  er  wade  it  at  the  ford,  a  mil'd  er 
more  down.  So  we  divided  in  three  sections,  like— one 
to  go  and  look  after  the  folks  at  the  house,  and  another 
to  the  boat,  and  another  to  the  ford.  And  Steve  and 
me  and  Ezry  was  in  the  crowd  Jat  struck  fer  the  boat: 
and  we  made  time  a-gittin'  there!  It  was  awful  dark, 
and  the  sky  was  a-cloudin'  up,  like  a  storm;  but  we  wasn't 
long  a-gittin'  to  the  p'int  where  the  boat  was  allus  tied; 
but  they  wasn't  no  boat  there!  Steve  kindo'  tuk  the 
lead,  and  we  all  talked  in  whispers.  And  Steve  said  to 
kindo'  lay  low  and  maybe  we  could  hear  somepin';  and 
some  feller  said  he  thought  he  heerd  somepin'  strange- 
like,  but  the  wind  was  kindo'  raisin'  and  kep'  up  sich  a 
moanin'  through  the  trees  along  the  bank  'at  we  couldn't 
make  out  nothin'.  "Listen!"  says  Steve,  suddent-like, 
"  1  hear  somepin' !"  We  was  all  still  ag'in— and  we  all 
heerd  a  moanin'  'at  was  sadder'n  the  wind— sounded 
mournfuller  to  me,— 'cause  I  knowed  it  in  a  minute,  and  I 
whispered,  "Little  Annie."  And  'way  out  acrost  the 
river  we  could  hear  the  little  thing  a-sobbin',  and  we  all 
was  still's  death;  and  we  heerd  a  voice  we  knowed  was 
Bills's  say,  "Dam  ye!  Keep  still,  or  I'll  drownd  ye!" 

172 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

And  the  wind  kindo'  moaned  ag'in,  and  we  could  hear  the 
trees  a-screetchin'  together  in  the  dark,  and  the  leaves 
a-rustlin';  and  when  it  kindo'  lulled  ag'in,  we  heerd  Bills 
make  a  kindo'  splash  with  the  oars;  and  jist  then  Steve 
whispered  fer  to  lay  low  and  be  ready— he  was  a-goin' 
to  riconn'itre;  and  he  tuk  his  coat  and  shoes  off,  and 
slid  over  the  bank  and  down  into  the  worter  as  slick  as 
a'  eel.  Then  ever'thing  was  still  ag'in,  'cept  the  moanin' 
o'  the  child,  which  kep'  a-gittin'  louder  and  louder;  and 
then  a  voice  whispered  to  us,  "He's  a-comin'  back;  the 
crowd  below  has  sent  scouts  up,  and  they're  on  t'other 
side.  Now  watch  clos't,  and  he's  our  meat."  We  could 
hear  Bills,  by  the  moanin'  o'  the  baby,  a-comin'  nearder 
and  nearder,  tel  suddently  he  made  a  sorto'  miss-lick 
with  the  oar,  I  reckon,  and  must  a-splashed  the  baby,  fer 
she  set  up  a  loud  cryin';  and  jist  then  old  Ezry,  who  was 
a-leanin'  over  the  bank,  kindo'  lost  his  grip,  some  way  o' 
nother,  and  fell  kersplash  in  the  worter  like  a'  old  chunk. 
"Hello!"  says  Bills,  through  the  dark,  "you're  there, 
too,  air  ye?"  as  old  Ezry  splashed  up  the  bank  ag'in. 
And  "Cuss  you!"  he  says  then,  to  the  baby — "ef  it 
hadn't  be'n  fer  your  infernal  squawkin'  I'd  a-be'n  all 
right;  but  you've  brought  the  whole  neighborhood  out, 
and,  dam  you,  I'll  jist  let  you  swim  out  to  'em!"  And 
we  heerd  a  splash,  then  a  kindo'  gurglin',  and  then 

173 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

Steve's  voice  a-hollerin',  "Close  in  on  him,  boys;  I've  got 
the  baby!"  And  about  a  dozent  of  us  bobbed  off  the 
bank  like  so  many  bull-frogs,  and  I'll  tell  you  the  worter 
b'iled!  We  could  jist  make  out  the  shape  o'  the  boat, 
and  Bills  a-standin'  with  a'  oar  drawed  back  to  smash 
the  first  head  'at  come  in  range.  It  was  a  mean  place 
to  git  at  him.  We  knowed  he  was  despert,  and  fer  a 
minute  we  kindo'  helt  back.  Fifteen  foot  o'  worter's  a 
mighty  onhandy  place  to  git  hit  over  the  head  in!  And 
Bills  says,  "You  hain't  afeard,  I  rickon— twenty  men 
ag'in  one!"  "You'd  better  give  yourse'f  up!"  hollered 
Ezry  from  the  shore.  "  No,  Brother  Sturgiss,"  says  Bills, 
"I  can't  say  'at  I'm  at  all  anxious  'bout  bein'  borned 
ag'in,  jist  yit  awhile,"  he  says; "  I  see  you  kindo'  'pear  to 
go  in  fer  babtism;  guess  you'd  better  go  home  and  git 
some  dry  clothes  on;  and,  speakin'  o'  home,  you'd  ort  'o 
be  there  by  all  means— your  house  might  catch  afire  and 
burn  up  whilse  you're  gone!"  And  jist  then  the  boat 
give  a  suddent  shove  under  him— some  feller'd  div  under 
and  tilted  it— and  fer  a  minute  it  thro  wed  him  off  his 
guard,  and  the  boys  closed  in.  Still  he  had  the  advan 
tage,  bein'  in  the  boat:  and  as  fast  as  a  feller  would  climb 
in  he'd  git  a  whack  o'  the  oar,  tel  finally  they  got  to 
pilin'  in  a  little  too  fast  fer  him  to  manage,  and  he  hol 
lered  then  'at  we'd  have  to  come  to  the  bottom  ef  we 

174 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

got  him,  and  with  that  he  div  out  o'  the  end  o'  the  boat, 
and  we  lost  sight  of  him;  and  I'll  be  blame  ef  he  didn't 
give  us  the  slip  after  all! 

Wellsir,  we  watched  fer  him,  and  some  o'  the  boys 
swum  on  down  stream,  expectin'  he'd  raise,  but  couldn't 
find  hide  ner  hair  of  him;  so  we  left  the  boat  a-driftin' 
off  down  stream  and  swum  ashore,  a-thinkin'  he'd  jist 
drownded  hisse'f  a-purpose.  But  they  was  more  su'prise 
waitin'  fer  us  yit,— fer  lo-and-behold-ye,  when  we  got 
ashore  they  wasn't  no  trace  o'  Steve  er  the  baby  to  be 
found.  Ezry  said  he  seed  Steve  when  he  fetched  little 
Annie  ashore,  and  she  was  all  right,  on'y  she  was  purt- 
nigh  past  cryin';  and  he  said  Steve  had  lapped  his  coat 
around  her  and  give  her  to  him  to  take  charge  of,  and 
he  got  so  excited  over  the  fight  he  laid  her  down  betwixt 
a  couple  o'  logs  and  kindo'  fergot  about  her  tel  the  thing 
was  over,  and  he  went  to  look  fer  her,  and  she  was  gone. 
Couldn't  a-be'n  'at  she'd  a-wundered  off  her-own-se'f ;  and 
it  couldn't  a-be'n  'at  Stevefd.  take  her,  'thout  a-lettin'  us 
know  it.  It  was  a  mighty  aggervatin'  conclusion  to  come 
to,  but  we  had  to  do  it,  and  that  was,  Bills  must  a-got 
ashore  unbeknownst  to  us  and  packed  her  off.  Sich  a 
thing  wasn't  hardly  probable,  yit  it  was  a  thing  'at  might 
be;  and  after  a-talkin'  it  over  we  had  to  admit  'at  that 
must  a-be'n  the  way  of  it.  But  where  was  Steve  ?  Wy, 

175 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

we  argied,  he'd  diskiwered  she  was  gone,  and  had  putt 
out  on  track  of  her  'thout  losin'  time  to  stop  and  explain 
the  thing.  The  next  question  was,  what  did  Bills  want 
with  her  ag'in?— He'd  tried  to  drownd  her  onc't.  We 
could  ast  questions  enough,  but  c'rect  answers  was 
mighty  skearce,and  we  jist  concluded  'at  the  best  thing  to 
do  was  to  putt  out  f er  the  ford,  f er  that  was  the  nighdest 
place  Bills  could  cross  'thout  a  boat,  and  ef  it  was  him 
tuk  the  child,  he  was  still  on  our  side  o'  the  river,  o' 
course.  So  we  struck  out  fer  the  ford,  a-leavin'  a  couple 
o'  men  to  search  up  the  river.  A  drizzlin'  sorto'  rain 
had  set  in  by  this  time,  and  with  that  and  the  darkness 
and  the  moanin'  of  the  wind,  it  made  'bout  as  lonesome 
a  prospect  as  a  feller  ever  wants  to  go  through  ag'in. 

It  was  jist  a-gittin'  a  little  gray-like  in  the  morning  by 
the  time  we  reached  the  ford,  but  you  couldn't  hardly 
see  two  rods  afore  you  fer  the  mist  and  the  fog  'at  had 
settled  along  the  river.  We  looked  fer  tracks,  but 
couldn't  make  out  nothin'.  Thereckly  old  Ezry  punched 
me  and  p'inted  out  acrost  the  river.  "What's  that?" 
he  whispers.  Jist  'bout  half-way  acrost  was  somepin' 
white-like  in  the  worter— couldn't  make  out  what— per- 
feckly  still  it  was.  And  I  whispered  back  and  told  him 
I  guess  it  wasn't  nothin'  but  a  sycamore  snag.  "  Listen ! " 
says  he;  "  sycamore  snags  don't  make  no  noise  like  that! " 

176 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

And,  shore  enough,  it  was  the  same  moanin'  noise  we'd 
heerd  the  baby  makin'  when  we  first  got  on  the  track. 
Sobbin'  she  was,  as  though  nigh  about  dead.  "  Well,  ef 
that's  Bills"  says  I—"  and  I  reckon  they  hain't  no  doubt 
but  it  is— what  in  the  name  o'  all  that's  good  and  bad's 
the  feller  a-standin'  there  fer?  "  And  a-creepin'  clos'ter, 
we  could  make  him  out  plainer  and  plainer.  It  was  him; 
and  there  he  stood  breast-high  in  the  worter,  a-holdin' 
the  baby  on  his  shoulder  like,  and  a-lookin'  up  stream, 
and  a-waitin'. 

"  What  do  you  make  out  of  it?  "  says  Ezry.  "  What's 
he  waitin'  fer?" 

And,  a-strainin'myeyes  in  the  direction  fo  was  a-lookin', 
I  seed  somepin'  a-movin'  down  the  river,  and  a  minute 
later  I'd  made  out  the  old  boat  a-driftin'  down  stream; 
and  then  of  course  ever'thing  was  plain  enough:  He  was 
waitin'  fer  the  boat,  and  ef  he  got  that  he'd  have  the 
same  advantage  on  us  he  had  afore. 

"  Boys,"  says  I,  "  he  mustn't  git  that  boat  ag'in!  Foller 
me,  and  don't  let  him  git  to  the  shore  alive!"  And  in 
we  plunged.  He  seed  us,  but  he  never  budged,  on'y  to 
grab  the  baby  by  its  little  legs,  and  swing  it  out  at  arms- 
len'th.  "  Stop,  there! "  he  hollered.—"  Stop  jist  where 
ye  air!  Move  another  inch  and  I'll  drownd  this  dam 
young-un  afore  yer  eyes!"  he  says.— And  he'd  a-done 

177 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

it.  "Boys,"  says  I,  "he's  got  us.  Don't  move!  This 
thing*!!  have  to  rest  with  a  higher  power'n  our'n!  Ef 
any  of  you  kin  pray"  says  I,  "  now's  a  good  time  to  do  it! " 
Jist  then  the  boat  swung  up,  and  Bills  grabbed  it  and 
retch  'round  and  set  the  baby  in  it,  never  a-takin'  his  eye 
off  o'  us,  though,  fer  a  minute.  "  Now,"  says  he,  with  a 
sorto'  snarlin'  laugh,  "  I've  on'y  got  a  little  while  to  stay 
with  you,  and  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  afore  I  go.  I 
want  to  tell  you  fellers,  in  the  first  place,  'at  you've  be'n 
fooled  in  me:  I  hain't  a  good  feller— now,  honest!  And  ef 
you're  a  little  the  worse  fer  findin'  it  out  so  late  in  the 
day,  you  hain't  none  the  worse  fer  losin'  me  so  soon— 
fer  I'm  a-goin'  away  now,  and  any  interference  with  my 
arrangements'll  on'y  give  you  more  trouble;  so  it's  better 
all  around  to  let  me  go  peaceable  and  jist  while  I'm  in 
the  notion.  I  expect  it'll  be  a  disapp'intment  to  some  o' 
you  that  my  name  hain't '  Williams,'  but  it  hain't.  And 
maybe  you  won't  think  nigh  as  much  o'  me  when  I  tell 
you  furder  'at  I  was  obleeged  to  'dopt  the  name  o' '  Wil 
liams  '  onc't  to  keep  from  bein'  strung  up  to  a  lamp-post, 
but  sich  is  the  facts.  I  was  so  extremely  unfortunit 
onc't  as  to  kill  a  p'tickler  friend  o'  mine,  and  he  forgive 
me  with  his  dyin'  breath,  and  told  me  to  run  whilse  I 
could,  and  be  a  better  man.  But  he'd  spotted  me  with 
a'  ugly  mark  'at  made  it  kindo'  onhandy  to  git  away,  but 

178 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

I  did  at  last;  and  jist  as  I  was  a-gittin'  reformed-like,  you 
fellers  had  to  kick  in  the  traces,  and  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  hunt  out  a  more  moraler  community,  where 
they  don't  make  sich  a  fuss  about  trifles.  And  havin* 
nothin'  more  to  say,  on'y  to  send  Annie  word  'at  I'll  still 
be  a  father  to  her  young-un  here,  I'll  bid  you  all  good 
bye."  And  with  that  he  turned  and  clum  in  the  boat— 
or  ruther/eZZ  in,— fer  somepin'  black-like  had  riz  up  in 
it,  with  a'  awful  lick — my— God!— And,  a  minute  later, 
boat  and  baggage  was  a-gratin'  on  the  shore,  and  a 
crowd  come  thrashin'  'crost  from  t'other  side  to  jine  us, — 
and  'peared  like  wasn't  a  second  longer  tel  a  feller  was 
a-swingin'  by  his  neck  to  the  limb  of  a  scrub-oak,  his 
feet  clean  off  the  ground  and  his  legs  a-jerkin'  up  and 
down  like  a  limber-jack's. 

And  Steve  it  was  a-layin'  in  the  boat,  and  he'd  rid  a 
mil'd  er  more  'thout  knowin'  of  it.  Bills  had  struck  and 
stunt  him  as  he  clum  in  whilse  the  rumpus  was  a-goin* 
on,  and  he'd  on'y  come  to  in  time  to  hear  Bills's  farewell 
address  to  us  there  at  the  ford. 

Steve  tuk  charge  o'  little  Annie  ag'in,  and  ef  she'd 
a-be'n  his  own  child  he  wouldn't  a-went  on  more  over  her 
than  he  did;  and  said  nobody  but  her  mother  would  git 
her  out  o'  his  hands  ag'in.  And  he  was  as  good  as  his 
word;  and  ef  you  could  a-seed  him  a  half  hour  after 

179 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

that,  when  he  did  give  her  to  her  mother— all  lapped  up 
in  his  coat  and  as  drippin'-wet  as  a  little  drownded 
angel— it  would  a-made  you  wish't  you  was  him  to  see 
that  little  woman  a-caperin'  round  him,  and  a-thankin' 
him,  and  a-cryin'  and  a-laughin',  and  almost  a-huggin' 
him,  she  was  so  tickled,— well,  I  thought  in  my  soul 
she'd  die!  And  Steve  blushed  like  a  girl  to  see  her 
a-takin'  on,  and  a-thankin'  him,  and  a-cryin',  and  a-kissin' 
little  Annie,  and  a-goin'  on.  And  when  she  inquired 
'bout  Bills,  which  she  did  all  suddent-like,  with  a  burst 
o'  tears,  we  jist  didn't  have  the  heart  to  tell  her— on'y  we 
said  he'd  crossed  the  river  and  got  away.  And  he  had! 
And  now  comes  a  part  o'  this  thing  'at'll  more'n  like 
tax  you  to  believe  it:  Williams  and  her  wasn't  man  and 
wife— and  you  needn't  look  su'prised,  nuther,  and  I'll 
tell  you  fer  why:— They  was  own  brother  and  sister;  and 
that  brings  me  to  her  part  of  the  story,  which  you'll  haf 
to  admit  beats  anything  'at  you  ever  read  about  in  books. 

Her  and  Williams— that  wasn't  his  name,  like  he  ac- 
knowledged,hisse'f,  you  rickollect— ner  she  didn't  want  to 
tell  his  right  name;  and  we  forgive  her  fer  that.  Her 
and  "Williams"  was  own  brother  and  sister,  and  their 
parunts  lived  in  Ohio  some'ers.  Their  mother  had  be'n 
dead  five  year'  and  better— grieved  to  death  over  her 

ISO 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

onnachurl  brother's  recklessness,  which  Annie  hinted 
had  broke  her  father  up  in  some  way,  in  tryin'  to  shield 
him  from  the  law.  And  the  secret  of  her  bein'  with  him 
was  this:  She  had  married  a  man  o*  the  name  of  Curtis 
or  Ouster,  I  don't  mind  which,  adzackly— but  no  matter; 
she'd  married  a  well-to-do  young  feller  'at  her  brother 
helt  a'  old  grudge  agMn,  she  never  knowed  what;  and, 
sence  her  marriage,  her  brother  had  went  on  from  bad 
to  worse,  tel  finally  her  father  jist  give  him  up  and  told 
him  to  go  it  his  own  way— he'd  killed  his  mother  and 
ruined  him,  and  he'd  jist  give  up  all  hopes!  But  Annie 
—you  know  how  a  sister  is— she  still  clung  to  him  and 
done  ever'thing  f  er  him,  tel  finally,  one  night,  about  three 
years  after  she  was  married,  she  got  word  some  way  that 
he  was  in  trouble  ag'in,  and  sent  her  husband  to  he'p 
him;  and  a  half  hour  after  he'd  gone,  her  brother  come 
in,  all  excited  and  bloody,  and  told  her  to  git  the  baby 
and  come  with  him,  'at  her  husband  had  got  in  a  quarrel 
with  a  friend  o'  his  and  was  bad  hurt.  And  she  went 
with  him,  of  course,  and  he  tuk  her  in  a  buggy,  and  lit 
out  with  her  as  tight  as  he  could  go  all  night;  and  then 
told  her  'at  he  was  the  feller  'at  had  quarrelled  with  her 
husband,  and  the  officers  was  after  him,  and  he  was 
obleeged  to  leave  the  country,  and  fer  fear  he  hadn't 
made  shore  work  o'  him,  he  was  a-takin'  her  along  to 

181 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

make  shore  of  his  gittin'  his  revenge;  and  he  swore  he'd 
kill  her  and  the  baby  too  ef  she  dared  to  whimper.  And 
so  it  was,  through  a  hunderd  hardships  he'd  made  his 
way  at  last  to  our  section  o'  the  country,  givin'  out  'at 
they  was  man  and  wife,  and  keepin'  her  from  denyin'  of 
it  by  threats,  and  promises  of  the  time  a-comin'  when 
he'd  send  her  home  to  her  man  ag'in  in  case  he  hadn't 
killed  him.  And  so  it  run  on  tel  you'd  a-cried  to  hear 
her  tell  it,  and  still  see  her  sister's  love  fer  the  feller 
a-breakin'  out  by  a-declarin'  how  kind  he  was  to  her  at 
times,  and  how  he  wasn't  railly  bad  at  heart,  on'y  fer  his 
ungov'nable  temper.  But  I  couldn't  he'p  but  notice, 
when  she  was  a-tellin'  of  her  hist'ry,  what  a  quiet  sorto' 
look  o'  satisfaction  settled  on  the  face  o'  Steve  and  the 
rest  of  'em,  don't  you  understand. 

And  now  they  was  on'y  one  thing  she  wanted  to  ast, 
she  said;  and  that  was,— could  she  still  make  her  home 
with  us  tel  she  could  git  word  to  her  friends?— and  there 
she  broke  down  ag'in,  not  knowin',  of  course,  whether 
they  was  dead  er  alive;  fer  time  and  time  ag'in  she  said 
somepin'  told  her  she'd  never  see  her  husband  ag'in  on 
this  airth;  and  then  the  women-folks  would  cry  with  her 
and  console  her,  and  the  boys  would  speak  hopeful— all 
but  Steve;  some  way  o'  nother  Steve  was  never  like  hisse'f 
from  that  time  on. 

182 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

And  so  things  went  fer  a  month  and  better.  Ever'- 
thing  had  quieted  down,  and  Ezry  and  a  lot  o'  hands, 
and  me  and  Steve  amongst  'em,  was  a-workin'  on  the 
frame-work  of  another  mill.  It  was  purty  weather,  and 
we  was  all  in  good  sperits,  and  it  'peared  like  the 
whole  neighborhood  was  interested— and  they  was,  too 
—women-folks  and  everybody.  And  that  day  Ezry's 
woman  and  amongst  'em  was  a-gittin'  up  a  big  dinner 
to  fetch  down  to  us  from  the  house;  and  along  about 
noon  a  spruce-lookin'  young  feller,  with  a  pale  face  and 
a  black  beard,  like,  come  a-ridin'  by  and  hitched  his  hoss, 
and  comin'  into  the  crowd,  said  "  Howdy,"  pleasant-like, 
and  we  all  stopped  work  as  he  went  on  to  say  'at  he  was 
on  the  track  of  a  feller  o'  the  name  o'  "  Williams,"  and 
wanted  to  know  ef  we  could  give  him  any  information 
'bout  sich  a  man.  Told  him  maybe,— 'at  a  feller  bearin' 
that  name  desappeared  kindo'  myster'ous  from  our 
neighberhood  'bout  five  weeks  afore  that.  "My  God!" 
says  he,  a-turnin'  paler'n  ever,  "am  I  too  late?  Where 
did  he  go,  and  was  his  sister  and  her  baby  with  him?" 
Jist  then  I  ketched  sight  o'  the  women-folks  a-comin' 
with  the  baskets,  and  Annie  with  'em,  with  a  jug  o' 
worter  in  her  hand;  so  I  spoke  up  quick  to  the  stranger, 
and  says  I,  "  I  guess  '  his  sister  and  her  baby '  wasn't 
along,"  says  I,  "  but  his  wife  and  baby's  some'eres  here  in 

183 


AN  OLD  SETTLER'S  STORY 

the  neighborhood  yit."  And  then  a-watchin'  him  clos't,  I 
says,  suddent,  a-p'intin'  over  his  shoulder,  "There  his 
woman  is  now— that  one  with  the  jug,  there."  Well, 
Annie  had  jist  stooped  to  lift  up  one  o'  the  little  girls, 
when  the  feller  turned,  and  their  eyes  met.  "Annie! 
My  wife!"  he  says;  and  Annie  she  kindo'  give  a  little 
yelp  like  and  come  a-flutterin'  down  in  his  arms;  and  the 
jug  o'  worter  rolled  clean  acrost  the  road,  and  turned  a 
somerset  and  knocked  the  cob  out  of  its  mouth  and  jist 
laid  back  and  hollered  "Good— good— good— good- 
good!  "  like  as  ef  it  knowed  what  was  up  and  was  jist  as 
glad  and  tickled  as  the  rest  of  us. 


184 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 


DIALECT   IN  LITERATURE 

"And  the  common  people  heard  him  gladly." 

OF  what  shall  be  said  herein  of  dialect,  let  it  be  un 
derstood  the  term  dialect  referred  to  is  of  that  general 
breadth  of  meaning  given  it  to-day,  namely,  any  speech 
or  vernacular  outside  the  prescribed  form  of  good  Eng 
lish  in  its  present  state.  The  present  state  of  the 
English  is,  of  course,  not  any  one  of  its  prior  states. 
So  first  let  it  be  remarked  that  it  is  highly  probable  that 
what  may  have  been  the  best  of  English  once  may  now 
by  some  be  counted  as  a  weak,  inconsequent  patois,  or 
dialect. 

To  be  direct,  it  is  the  object  of  this  article  to  show 
that  dialect  is  not  a  thing  to  be  despised  in  any  event— 
that  its  origin  is  oftentimes  of  as  royal  caste  as  that  of 
any  speech.  Listening  back,  from  the  standpoint  of  to 
day,  even  to  the  divine  singing  of  that  old  classic  master 
to  whom  England's  late  laureate  refers  as 

187 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

".  .  .  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still "; 

or  to  whom  Longfellow  alludes,  in  his  matchless  sonnet,  as 

"...  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song  ";— 

Chaucer's  verse  to  us  is  now  as  veritably  dialect  as  to 
that  old  time  it  was  the  chastest  English;  and  even  then 
his  materials  were  essentially  dialect  when  his  song 
was  at  best  pitch.  Again,  our  present  dialect,  of  most 
plebeian  ancestry,  may  none  the  less  prove  worthy. 
Mark  the  recognition  of  its  own  personal  merit  in  the 
great  new  dictionary,  where  what  was,  in  our  own  re 
membrance,  the  most  outlandish  dialect,  is  now  good, 
sound,  official  English. 

Since  Literature  must  embrace  all  naturally  existing 
materials— physical,  mental,  and  spiritual— we  have  no 
occasion  to  urge  its  acceptance  of  so-called  dialect,  for 
dialect  is  in  Literature,  and  has  been  there  since  the  be 
ginning  of  all  written  thought  and  utterance.  Strictly 

188 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

speaking,  as  well  as  paradoxically,  all  verbal  expression 
is  more  or  less  dialectic,  however  grammatical.  While 
usage  establishes  grammar,  it  no  less  establishes  so- 
called  dialect.  Therefore  we  may  as  rightfully  refer  to 
"so-called  grammar." 

It  is  not  really  a  question  of  Literature's  position 
toward  dialect  that  we  are  called  upon  to  consider,  but 
rather  how  much  of  Literature's  valuable  time  shall  be 
taken  up  by  this  dialectic  country  cousin.  This  question 
Literature  her  gracious  self  most  amiably  answers  by 
hugging  to  her  breast  voluminous  tomes,  from  Chaucer 
on  to  Dickens,  from  Dickens  on  to  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 
And  this  affectionate  spirit  on  the  part  of  Literature,  in 
the  main,  we  all  most  feelingly  indorse. 

Briefly  summed,  it  would  appear  that  dialect  means 
something  more  than  mere  rude  form  of  speech  and 
action— that  it  must,  in  some  righteous  and  substantial 
way,  convey  to  us  a  positive  force  of  soul,  truth,  dignity, 
beauty,  grace,  purity  and  sweetness  that  may  even  touch 
us  to  the  tenderness  of  tears.  Yes,  dialect  as  certainly 
does  all  this  as  that  speech  and  act  refined  may  do  it, 
and  for  the  same  reason:  it  is  simply,  purely  natural  and 
human. 

Yet  the  Lettered  and  the  Unlettered  powers  are  at 
swords'  points;  and  very  old  and  bitter  foemen,  too,  they 

189 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

are.  As  fairly  as  we  can,  then,  let  us  look  over  the  field 
of  these  contending  forces  and  note  their  diverse  posi 
tions:  First,  the  Lettered— they  who  have  the  full  ad 
vantages  of  refined  education,  training,  and  association 
—are  undoubtedly  as  wholly  out  of  order  among  the  Un 
fettered  as  the  Unlettered  are  out  of  order  in  the  exalted 
presence  of  the  Lettered.  Each  faction  may  in  like 
aversion  ignore  or  snub  the  other;  but  a  long-suffering 
Providence  must  bear  with  the  society  of  both.  There 
may  be  one  vague  virtue  demonstrated  by  this  feud:  each 
division  will  be  found  unwaveringly  loyal  to  its  kind,  and 
mutually  they  desire  no  interchange  of  sympathy  what 
ever.— Neither  element  will  accept  from  the  other  any 
patronizing  treatment;  and,  perhaps,  the  more  especially 
does  the  Unlettered  faction  reject  anything  in  vaguest 
likeness  of  this  spirit.  Of  the  two  divisions,  in  graphic 
summary,— one  knows  the  very  core  and  centre  of  refined 
civilization,  and  this  only;  the  other  knows  the  outlying 
wilds  and  suburbs  of  civilization,  and  this  only.  Whose, 
therefore,  is  the  greater  knowledge,  and  whose  the  just 
right  of  any  whit  of  self-glorification? 

A  curious  thing,  indeed,  is  this  factional  pride,  as 
made  equally  manifest  in  both  forces;  in  one,  for  in 
stance,  of  the  Unlettered  forces:  The  average  farmer, 
or  countryman,  knows,  in  reality,  a  far  better  and  wider 

190 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

range  of  diction  than  he  permits  himself  to  use.  He 
restricts  and  abridges  the  vocabulary  of  his  speech, 
fundamentally,  for  the  reason  that  he  fears  offending 
his  rural  neighbors,  to  whom  a  choicer  speech  might 
suggest,  on  his  part,  an  assumption— a  spirit  of  con 
scious  superiority,  and  therewith  an  implied  reflection 
on  their  lack  of  intelligence  and  general  worthiness.  If 
there  is  any  one  text  universally  known  and  nurtured  of 
the  Unlettered  masses  of  our  common  country,  it  is  that 
which  reads,  "All  men  are  created  equal."  Therefore 
it  is  a  becoming  thing  when  true  gentility  prefers  to 
overlook  some  variations  of  the  class  who,  more  from 
lack  of  cultivation  than  out  of  rude  intent,  sometimes 
almost  compel  a  positive  doubt  of  the  nice  veracity  of 
the  declaration,  or  at  least  a  grief  at  the  munificent 
liberality  of  the  so-bequoted  statement.  The  somewhat 
bewildering  position  of  these  conflicting  forces  leaves  us 
nothing  further  to  consider,  but  how  to  make  the  most 
and  best  of  the  situation  so  far  as  Literature  may  be 
hurt  or  helped  thereby. 

Equally  with  the  perfect  English,  then,  dialect  should 
have  full  justice  done  it.  Then  always  it  is  worthy,  and 
in  Literature  is  thus  welcome.  The  writer  of  dialect 
should  as  reverently  venture  in  its  use  as  in  his  chastest 
English.  His  effort  in  the  scholarly  and  elegant  direction 

191 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

suffers  no  neglect— he  is  schookd  in  that,  perhaps,  he 
may  explain.  Then  let  him  be  schooled  in  dialect  before 
he  sets  up  as  an  expounder  of  it— a  teacher,  forsooth  a 
master!  The  real  master  must  not  only  know  each  vary 
ing  light  and  shade  of  dialect  expression,  but  he  must 
as  minutely  know  the  inner  character  of  the  people 
whose  native  tongue  it  is,  else  his  product  is  simply  a 
pretence— a  wilful  forgery,  a  rank  abomination.  Dia 
lect  has  been  and  is  thus  insulted,  vilified,  and  degraded, 
now  and  continually;  and  through  this  outrage  solely, 
thousands  of  generous-minded  readers  have  been  turned 
against  dialect  who  otherwise  would  have  loved  and 
blessed  it  in  its  real  form  of  crude  purity  and  unstrained 
sweetness — 

"Honey  dripping  from  the  comb!" 

Let  no  impious  faddist,  then,  assume  its  just  inter 
pretation.  He  may  know  everything  else  in  the  world, 
but  not  dialect,  nor  dialectic  people,  for  both  of  which  he 
has  supreme  contempt,  which  same,  be  sure,  is  heartily 
returned.  Such  a  "superior"  personage  may  even  go 
among  these  simple  country  people  and  abide  indefinitely 
in  the  midst  of  them,  yet  their  more  righteous  contempt 
never  for  one  instant  permits  them  to  be  their  real  selves 
in  his  presence.  In  consequence,  his  most  conscientious 

192 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

report  of  them,  their  ways,  lives,  and  interests,  is  abso 
lutely  of  no  importance  or  value  in  the  world.  He  nevei 
knew  them,  nor  will  he  ever  know  them.  They  are  not 
his  kind  of  people,  any  more  than  he  is  their  kind  of 
man;  and  their  disappointment  grieves  us  more  than  his. 
The  master  in  Literature,  as  in  any  art,  is  that  "  di 
vinely  gifted  man  "  who  does  just  obeisance  to  all  living 
creatures,  "  both  man  and  beast  and  bird."  It  is  this 
master  only  who,  as  he  writes,  can  sweep  himself  aside 
and  leave  his  humble  characters  to  do  the  thinking  and 
the  talking.  This  man  it  is  who  celebrates  his  perform 
ance—not  himself.  His  work  he  celebrates  because  it 
is  not  his  only,  but  because  he  feels  it  the  conscientious 
reproduction  of  the  life  itself —as  he  has  seen  and  known 
and  felt  it;— a  representation  it  is  of  God's  own  script, 
translated  and  transcribed  by  the  worshipful  mind  and 
heart  and  hand  of  genius.  This  virtue  in  all  art  is  im 
partially  demanded,  and  genius  only  can  fully  answer  the 
demand  in  any  art  for  which  we  claim  perfection.  The 
painter  has  his  expression  of  it,  with  no  slighting  of  the 
dialectic  element;  so,  too,  the  sculptor,  the  musician, 
and  the  list  entire.  In  the  line  of  Literature  and  literary 
material,  an  illustration  of  the  nice  meaning  and  dis 
tinction  of  dialectic  art  will  be  found  in  Charles  Dudley 
Warner's  comment  of  George  Cable's  work,  as  far  back 

193 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

as  1883,  referring  to  the  author's  own  rendition  of  it 
from  the  platform.    Mr.  Warner  says: 

While  the  author  was  unfolding  to  his  audience  a  life  and 
society  unfamiliar  to  them  and  entrancing  them  with  pictures, 
the  reality  of  which  none  doubted  and  the  spell  of  which  none 
cared  to  escape,  it  occurred  to  me  that  here  was  the  solution 
of  all  the  pother  we  have  recently  got  into  about  the  realistic 
and  the  ideal  schools  in  fiction.  In  "  Posson  Jone,"  an  awkward 
camp-meeting  country  preacher  is  the  victim  of  a  vulgar  con 
fidence  game;  the  scenes  are  the  street,  a  drinking-place,  a 
gambling-saloon,  a  bull-ring,  and  a  calaboose;  there  is  not  a 
"  respectable  "  character  in  it.  Where  shall  we  look  for  a  more 
faithful  picture  of  low  life?  Where  shall  we  find  another  so 
vividly  set  forth  in  all  its  sordid  details?  And  yet  see  how  art 
steps  in,  with  the  wand  of  genius,  to  make  literature!  Over 
the  whole  the  author  has  cast  an  ideal  light;  over  a  picture 
that,  in  the  hands  of  a  bungling  realist,  would  have  been  re 
pellent  he  has  thrown  the  idealizing  grace  that  makes  it  one  of 
the  most  charming  sketches  in  the  world.  Here  is  nature,  as 
nature  only  ought  to  be  in  literature,  elevated  but  never  de 
parted  from. 

So  we  find  dialect,  as  a  branch  of  Literature,  worthy 
of  the  high  attention  and  employment  of  the  greatest 
master  in  letters— not  the  merest  mountebank.  Turn 
to  Dickens,  in  innumerable  passages  of  pathos:  the  death 

194 


of  poor  Jo,  or  that  of  the  "  Cheap  John's  "  little  daughter 
in  her  father's  arms,  on  the  foot-board  of  his  peddling 
cart  before  the  jeering  of  the  vulgar  mob;  smile  moistly, 
too,  at  Mr.  Sleary's  odd  philosophies;  or  at  the  trials  of 
Sissy  Jupe;  or  lift  and  tower  with  indignation,  giving  ear 
to  Stephen  Blackpool  and  the  stainless  nobility  of  his 
cloyed  utterances. 

The  crudeness  or  the  homeliness  of  the  dialectic  ele 
ment  does  not  argue  its  unfitness  in  any  way.  Some 
readers  seem  to  think  so;  but  they  are  wrong,  and  very 
gravely  wrong.  Our  own  brief  history  as  a  nation,  and  our 
finding  and  founding  and  maintaining  of  it,  left  our  fore 
fathers  little  time  indeed  for  the  delicate  cultivation  of 
the  arts  and  graces  of  refined  and  scholarly  attainments. 
And  there  is  little  wonder,  and  great  blamelessness  on 
their  part,  if  they  lapsed  in  point  of  high  mental  ac 
complishments,  seeing  their  attention  was  so  absorbed 
by  propositions  looking  toward  the  protection  of  their 
rude  farm-homes,  their  meagre  harvests,  and  their  half- 
stabled  cattle  from  the  dread  invasion  of  the  Indian. 
Then,  too,  they  had  their  mothers  and  their  wives  and 
little  ones  to  protect,  to  clothe,  to  feed,  and  to  die  for 
in  this  awful  line  of  duty,  as  hundreds  upon  hundreds 
did.  These  sad  facts  are  here  accented  and  detailed  not 
so  much  for  the  sake  of  being  tedious  as  to  more  clearly 

195 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

indicate  why  it  was  that  many  of  the  truly  heroic  an 
cestry  of  "  our  best  people  "  grew  unquestionably  dialect 
of  caste— not  alone  in  speech,  but  in  every  mental  trait 
and  personal  address.  It  is  a  grievous  fact  for  us  to 
confront,  but  many  of  them  wore  apparel  of  the  com 
monest,  talked  loudly,  and  doubtless  said  "thisaway" 
and  "thataway,"  and  "Watch  f  doin'  of?"  and  " Whur 
y'  goin'  at?  "—using  dialect  even  in  their  prayers  to  Him 
who,  in  His  gentle  mercy,  listened  and  was  pleased;  and 
who  listens  verily  unto  this  hour  to  all  like  prayers,  yet 
pleased;  yea,  haply  listens  even  to  the  refined  rhetorical 
petitions  of  those  who  are  not  pleased. 

There  is  something  more  at  fault  than  the  language 
when  we  turn  from  or  flinch  at  it;  and,  as  has  been  in 
timated,  the  wretched  fault  may  be  skulkingly  hidden 
away  in  the  ambush  of  ostensible  dialect— that  type  of 
dialect  so  copiously  produced  by  its  sole  manufacturers, 
who,  utterly  stark  and  bare  of  the  vaguest  idea  of 
country  life  or  country  people,  at  once  assume  that  all 
their  "  gifted  pens "  have  to  do  is  to  stupidly  misspell 
every  word;  vulgarly  mistreat  and  besloven  every  theme, 
however  sacred;  maim,  cripple,  and  disfigure  language 
never  in  the  vocabulary  of  the  countryman  —  then 
smuggle  these  monstrosities  of  either  rhyme  or  prose 
somehow  into  the  public  print  that  is  to  innocently 

196 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

smear  them  broadcast  all  over  the  face  of  the  country 
they  insult. 

How  different  the  mind  and  method  of  the  true  inter 
preter.  As  this  phrase  goes  down  the  man  himself 
arises— the  type  perfect— Colonel  Richard  Malcolm 
Johnston,  who  wrote  "  The  Dukesborough  Tales  "—an  ac 
complished  classic  scholar  and  teacher,  yet  no  less  an 
accomplished  master  and  lover  of  his  native  dialect  of  - 
middle  Georgia.  He,  like  Dickens,  permits  his  rustic 
characters  to  think,  talk,  act,  and  live,  just  as  nature 
designed  them.  He  does  not  make  the  pitiable  error  of 
either  patronizing  or  making  fun  of  them.  He  knows 
them  and  he  loves  them;  and  they  know  and  love  him  in 
return.  Recalling  Colonel  Johnston's  dialectic  sketches, 
with  his  own  presentation  of  them  from  the  platform, 
the  writer  notes  a  fact  that  seems  singularly  to  obtain 
among  all  true  dialect-writers,  namely,  that  they  are  also 
endowed  with  native  histrionic  capabilities:  Hear,  as 
well  as  read,  Twain,  Cable,  Johnston,  Page,  Smith,  and 
all  the  list,  with  barely  an  exception. 

Did  space  permit,  no  better  illustration  of  true  dialect 
sketch  and  characterization  might  here  be  offered  than 
Colonel  Johnston's  simple  story  of  "Mr.  Absalom  Bil- 
lingslea,"  or  the  short  and  simple  annals  of  his  like  quaint 
contemporaries,  "Mr.  Bill  Williams"  and  "Mr.  Jonas 
.197 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

Lively."  The  scene  is  the  country  and  the  very  little 
country  town,  with  landscape,  atmosphere,  simplicity,  cir 
cumstance—all  surroundings  and  conditions— veritable— 
everything  rural  and  dialectic,  no  less  than  the  simple, 
primitive,  common,  wholesome-hearted  men  and  women 
who  so  naturally  live  and  have  their  blessed  being  in  his 
stories,  just  as  in  the  life  itself.  This  is  the  manifest 
work  of  the  true  dialect  writer  and  expounder.  In  every 
detail,  the  most  minute,  such  work  reveals  the  master- 
hand  and  heart  of  the  humanitarian  as  well  as  artist— 
the  two  are  indissolubly  fused— and  the  result  of  such 
just  treatment  of  whatever  lowly  themes  or  characters 
we  can  but  love  and  loyally  approve  with  all  our  human 
hearts.  Such  masters  necessarily  are  rare,  and  such 
ripe  perfecting  as  is  here  attained  may  be  in  part  the 
mellowing  result  of  age  and  long  observation,  though  it 
can  but  be  based  upon  the  wisest,  purest  spirit  of  the 
man  as  well  as  artist. 

In  no  less  excellence  should  the  work  of  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  be  regarded:  His  touch  alike  is  ever  reverential. 
He  has  gathered  up  the  bruised  and  broken  voices  and 
the  legends  of  the  slave,  and  from  his  child-heart  he 
has  affectionately  yielded  them  to  us  in  all  their  eerie 
beauty  and  wild  loveliness.  Through  them  we  are  made 
to  glorify  the  helpless  and  the  weak  and  to  revel  in  their 

198 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

victories.  But,  better,  we  are  taught  that  even  in  bar 
baric  breasts  there  dwells  inherently  the  sense  of  right 
above  wrong— equity  above  law— and  the  One  Unerring 
Righteousness  Eternal.  With  equal  truth  and  strength, 
too,  Mr.  Harris  has  treated  the  dialectic  elements  of  the 
interior  Georgia  country— the  wilds  and  fastnesses  of 
the  "moonshiners."  His  tale  of  "Teague  Poteet,"  of 
some  years  ago,  was  contemporaneous  with  the  list  of 
striking  mountain  stories  from  that  strong  and  highly 
gifted  Tennesseean,  Miss  Murfree,  or  "Charles  Egbert 
Craddock."  In  the  dialectic  spirit  her  stories  charm 
and  hold  us.  Always  there  is  strangely  mingled,  but 
most  naturally,  the  gentle  nature  cropping  out  amid  the 
most  desperate  and  stoical:  the  night  scene  in  the  iso 
lated  mountain  cabin,  guarded  ever  without  and  within 
from  any  chance  down-swooping  of  the  minions  of  the 
red-eyed  law;  the  great  man-group  of  gentle  giants, 
with  rifles  never  out  of  arm's-reach,  in  tender  rivalry 
ranged  admiringly  around  the  crowing,  wakeful  little 
boy-baby;  the  return,  at  last,  of  the  belated  mistress  of 
the  house— the  sister,  to  whom  all  do  great,  awkward 
reverence.  Jealously  snatching  up  the  babe  and  kissing 
it,  she  querulously  demands  why  he  has  not  long  ago  been 
put  to  bed.  "  He  'lowed  he  wouldn't  go,"  is  the  reply. 
Thomas  Nelson  Page,  of  Virginia,  who  wrote  "Meh 
199 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

Lady,"  a  positive  classic  in  the  Negro  dialect,  his  work 
is  veritable— strong  and  pure  and  sweet;  and  as  an  oral 
reader  of  it  the  doubly  gifted  author,  in  voice  and  ca 
dence,  natural  utterance,  every  possible  effect  of  speech 
and  tone,  is  doubtless  without  rival  anywhere. 

Many  more,  indeed,  than  may  be  mentioned  now  there 
are  of  these  real  benefactors  and  preservers  of  the  way 
side  characters,  times,  and  customs  of  our  ever-shifting 
history.  Needless  is  it  to  speak  here  of  the  earlier  of 
our  workers  in  the  dialectic  line— of  James  Russell 
Lowell's  New  England  "Hosea  Biglow,"  Dr.  Eggles- 
ton's  "Hoosier  School-Master,"  or  the  very  rare  and 
quaint,  bright  prattle  of  "  Helen's  Babies."  In  connec 
tion  with  this  last  let  us  very  seriously  inquire  what  this 
real  child  has  done  that  Literature  should  so  persistently 
refuse  to  give  him  an  abiding  welcome?  Since  for  ages 
this  question  seems  to  have  been  left  unasked,  it  may 
be  timely  now  to  propound  it.  Why  not  the  real  child 
in  Literature?  The  real  child  is  good  enough  (we  all 
know  he  is  bad  enough)  to  command  our  admiring  at 
tention  and  most  lively  interest  in  real  life,  and  just  as 
we  find  him  "in  the  raw."  Then  why  do  we  deny  him 
any  righteous  place  of  recognition  in  our  Literature? 
From  the  immemorial  advent  of  our  dear  old  Mother 
Goose,  Literature  has  been  especially  catering  to  the 

200 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

juvenile  needs  and  desires,  and  yet  steadfastly  overlook 
ing,  all  the  time,  the  very  principles  upon  which  Nature 
herself  founds  and  presents  this  lawless  little  brood  of 
hers— the  children.  It  is  not  the  children  who  are  out 
of  order;  it  is  Literature.  And  not  only  is  Literature 
out  of  order,  but  she  is  presumptuous;  she  is  impudent. 
She  takes  Nature's  children  and  revises  and  corrects 
them  till  "  their  own  mother  doesn't  know  them."  This 
is  literal  fact.  So,  very  many  of  us  are  coming  to  in 
quire,  as  we've  a  right,  why  is  the  real  child  excluded 
from  a  just  hearing  in  the  world  of  letters  as  he  has  in 
the  world  of  fact?  For  instance,  what  has  the  lovely 
little  ragamuffin  ever  done  of  sufficient  guilt  to  eternally 
consign  him  to  the  monstrous  penalty  of  speaking  most 
accurate  grammar  all  the  literary  hours  of  the  days  of 
the  years  of  his  otherwise  natural  life?— 

"  Oh,  mother,  may  I  go  to  school 
With  brother  Charles  to-day? 
The  air  is  very  fine  and  cool; 
Oh,  mother,  say  I  may! " 

—Is  this  a  real  boy  that  would  make  such  a  request, 
and  is  it  the  real  language  he  would  use?  No,  we  are 
glad  to  say  that  it  is  not.  Simply  it  is  a  libel,  in  every 
particular,  on  any  boy,  however  fondly  and  exactingly 

201 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

trained  by  parents  however  zealous  for  his  overdecorous 
future.  Better,  indeed,  the  dubious  sentiment  of  the  most 
trivial  nursery  jingle,  since  the  latter  at  least  main 
tains  the  lawless  though  wholesome  spirit  of  the  child- 
genuine. — 

"Hink!  Minx!  The  old  witch  winks— 

The  fat  begins  to  fry; 
There's  nobody  home  but  Jumping  Joan, 
Father  and  mother  and  I." 

Though  even  here  the  impious  poet  leaves  the  scar  of 
grammatical  knowledge  upon  childhood's  native  diction; 
and  so  the  helpless  little  fellow  is  again  misrepresented, 
and  his  character,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  is  as 
saulted  and  maligned  outrageously  thereby. 

Now,  in  all  seriousness,  this  situation  ought  not  to  be 
permitted  to  exist,  though  to  change  it  seems  an  almost 
insurmountable  task.  The  general  public,  very  proba 
bly,  is  not  aware  of  the  real  gravity  of  the  position  of 
the  case  as  even  unto  this  day  it  exists.  Let  the  public 
try,  then,  to  contribute  the  real  child  to  the  so-called 
Child  Literature  of  its  country,  and  have  its  real  child 
returned  as  promptly  as  it  dare  show  its  little  tousled 
head  in  the  presence  of  that  scholarly  and  dignified  in 
stitution.  Then  ask  why  your  real  child  has  been 
spanked  back  home  again,  and  the  wise  mentors  there 

202 


DIALECT  IN  LITERATURE 

will  virtually  tell  you  that  Child  Literature  wants  no 
real  children  in  it,  that  the  real  child's  example  of  de 
fective  grammar  and  lack  of  elegant  deportment  would 
furnish  to  its  little  patrician  patrons  suggestions  very 
hurtful  indeed  to  their  higher  morals,  tendencies,  and 
ambitions.  Then,  although  the  general  public  couldn't 
for  the  life  of  it  see  why  or  how,  and  might  even  be 
reminded  that  it  was  just  such  a  rowdying  child  itself, 
and  that  its  father— the  Father  of  his  Country— was  just 
such  a  child;  that  Abraham  Lincoln  was  just  such  a 
lovable,  lawless  child,  and  yet  was  blessed  and  chosen  in 
the  end  for  the  highest  service  man  may  ever  render 
unto  man,— all— all  this  argument  would  avail  not  in 
the  least,  since  the  elegantly  minded  purveyors  of  Child 
Literature  cannot  possibly  tolerate  the  presence  of  any 
but  the  refined  children— the  very  proper  children— the 
studiously  thoughtful,  poetic  children;— and  these  must 
be  kept  safe  from  the  contaminating  touch  of  our  rough- 
and-tumble  little  fellows  in  "  hodden  gray,"  with  frowzly 
heads,  begrimed  but  laughing  faces,  and  such  awful, 
awful  vulgarities  of  naturalness,  and  crimes  of  sim 
plicity,  and  brazen  faith  and  trust,  and  love  of  life  and 
everybody  in  it.  All  other  real  people  are  getting  into 
Literature;  and  without  some  real  children  along  will 
they  not  soon  be  getting  lonesome,  too? 

203 


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